


A Mountie in Maggody: A due South/Arly Hanks Crossover

by dsa_archivist



Category: Malice in Maggody - Joan Hess, due South
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-03-11
Updated: 2000-03-11
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:50:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: A crate of exploding syrup lead Ray and Benny to the Arkansas Ozarks and a witness named Marjorie...





	A Mountie in Maggody: A due South/Arly Hanks Crossover

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Title: A Mountie in Maggody: A Due South/Arly Hanks adventure  
Author: A.J. Dannehl  
Rating: PG  
Pairings: non (although there are rumors concerning Raz and Marjorie)  
Season: season 2-ish  
Spoilers: ATQH, RWorB  
Disclosures: Alliance owns the guys and everyone else at the 27th; Arly Hanks and the citizens of Maggody belong to author Joan Hess. I own only this particular Bert & Ernie and the situation of this story, which is written soley for pleasure.  
**  
**  
  
**One day in Chicago...**  
  
Ray Vecchio picked up his phone, scowled at its unoffending buttons,  
and began to punch same buttons ferociously. His good friend, Constable  
Benton Fraser, RCMP, seated in a chair on the other side of the detective's  
desk, watched and listened, a slight frown upon his classically featured  
face. "Yeah, is this the Maggody Police Station? Maggody, Arkansas,  
right? My name is Ray Vecchio, and I'm a detective with the Chicago  
P.D.," Ray, his expression tight, said into the receiver. "P.D.,"  
he repeated. "Police Department. Yes, ma'am, just like on T.V...."  
green eyes rolling expressively, Ray sighed and continued."I need  
to speak with Police Chief Hanks. Is he there?" A pause, as over  
the long-distance line, someone in the far-away Arkansas town explained  
that, no, Chief Hanks wasn't there at the moment. "Is there someone  
else there I can talk to?" Ray, having heard another female voice  
in the background (loud enough so that he could tell that the Canadian  
could hear it, too; hell, Canadians still in _Canada_ probably could  
hear it), asked impatiently. "OK, you're...what did you say your  
name was? Marjorie? OK, Marjorie, you're the secretary, and she's the  
receptionist, and..." another pause for a long distance explanation;  
Ray, leaning on one elbow, chin propped in one cupped hand, the other  
gripping the 'phone with knuckles that became whiter and whiter, plowed  
on. "You sometimes both do different jobs. OK, I see. Are either  
of you police officers? There are no other police officers, just Chief  
Hanks. OK. Then, would one of you, no, ma'am, I really don't care which  
one, will one of you please inform Chief Hanks that Detective Vecchio,  
V-E-C-C-H-I-O, of the Chicago P.D.... yes, ma'am, Police Department...  
and Constable Benton Fraser... no, ma'am, no _i_ in _Fraser_ ,  
of the..." here he didn't even try the initials "...Royal Canadian  
Mounted Police - yes, ma'am, that's the R.C.M.P., the guys in red who  
ride horses - will be in Maggody tomorrow," here Vecchio paused  
again, checking the names typed on the form in front of him, " to  
question a Kevin Buchanon and a Dahlia O'Neill Buchanon. Yes, ma'am.  
Tomorrow, about three in the afternoon, your time." Again Ray paused,  
as the unknown secretary wrote his message.  
  
"Ray, I think that Arkansas is on Central Standard Time, the same  
as Chicago," Fraser pointed out helpfully.  
  
"No, Benny," Ray informed him, his hand over the mouthpiece,  
"Arkansas is, for all we know, in an entirely different century  
and maybe on an entirely different planet and I don't care, anyways.  
Yes, ma'am," he said, removing his hand and continuing his conversation  
with the unseen Marjorie of Maggody, "I know Arkansas and Chicago  
are both Central Time. Well, both Constable Fraser and I will be in your  
town tomorrow, and we'll need some place to stay. Can your office arrange  
something for us? Yes, my department will be picking up the tab. Yes,  
ma'am. Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am, and y'all have a good day, too."  
Barely waiting until the woman on the other end hung up, Ray slammed  
his own phone back onto the cradle. He then bowed forward over his desk  
and began banging his head.  
  
"Ray?"  
  
_Thunk  
  
_ "What?"  
  
"Are you all right?" Benton Fraser, concerned, asked his friend.  
Diefenbaker, seated within donut-snatching distance of the desk, scuttled  
back a few paces.  
  
"Yes, Benny, ( _thunk_ ) I am perfectly all right. Can'tyou  
tell?" _(thunk)  
  
_ "Ray?"  
          
"Ray."  
  
_Thunk  
_  
"RAY!"  
  
"WHAT!"  
  
Heads in the squadroom turned. Embarrassed, but glad that at least Ray  
had stopped beating his head against the desk, Fraser continued in a  
much lower voice,"Ray, the behavior that you have just exhibited  
is not indicative of a person who is just, and I quote, 'perfectly all  
right.' While I have never made a formal study of psychology -"  
  
Ray raised his head; there was a neat, round red splotch in the center  
of his forehead. "But I'm sure you read everything Freud wrote that  
you could find in your dear old grannie's library," he said grumpily.  
  
"Actually, my grandmother had a complete collection of Jung's works  
and only one of Freud's," Fraser noted, "and as I did read  
that work, I suppose you would be correct in your assertion that I had  
read everything she possessed of Freud's. Also, I don't remember calling  
my grandmother _grannie,_ but that's not important right now. What  
I am trying to say is that you are exhibiting what can only be described  
as irrational behavior."  
  
Ray looked at his friend through half-closed eyes. "Actually, Benny,  
I am not exhibiting irrational behavior," he said, echoing (or maybe  
mocking) the Mountie's pedagogical tones. "What I am exhibiting  
is perfectly rational behavior for someone's whose been ordered, not  
to arrange for the extradition of a couple of suspects who live on the  
last jumping off spot at the edge of the world but who happen to be  
involved in the illegal weapons trade here in Chicago and question them  
_here_ in _Chicago_ , but instead, _go_ to the last jumping  
off spot at the edge of the world and _there_ question same suspects  
who live there and are involved in the illegal weapons trade here in  
Chicago." Depressed, Ray folded his arms on the desk top and buried  
his head there.  
  
"Don't you mean _alleged_ suspects involved in the illegal  
weapons trade here in Chicago? Fraser, who really worried about such  
minute legal points, asked. "Or," he said, reconsidering, "perhaps,  
suspects _allegedly_ involved in the illegal weapons trade."  
  
"Here in Chicago," Ray, voice muffled, added for him.  
  
"Yes, Ray. Here in Chicago."  
  
"Benny?" Ray raised his head to look at his friend.  
  
"What, Ray?"  
  
"Do you know what ' _alleged'_ means?"  
  
"Of course, Ray," the Mountie assured him. "'Allege.'  
As a verb, according to Black's Law Dictionary, Fifth Edition, it means  
'to state, recite, assert, or charge; to make an -'"  
  
"No, no, no," Vecchio contradicted, his hands making erasure  
motions in the air. "No, Benny, ' _allege'_ is a word they use  
in newspapers and on television news shows that means 'hey, you can't  
sue my butt, because I didn't come out and say you are guilty, I'm just  
saying that the police and everyone else on earth says you are guilty,  
and I'm quoting them.'" He looked at his friend, and concluded,  
"And that, my Canadian friend, is the meaning of noun -"  
  
"Verb, Ray."  
  
" _Verb,_ " Ray said testily, "'allege' in the American  
judicial and legal system.  
And on the networks and cable, too."  
  
"Ray," Fraser, cautious, said, "I think you are missing  
the point."  
  
"No, Benny, I am not missin' the point, _you,_ you are missing  
the point. And the point that you are missing," said Ray, full-blown  
whine mode revved up again, " is the point that we have to fly out  
from O'Hare tomorrow morning and take some crop duster or whatever they  
use down there to Little Rock and take something worse, probably a Sopwith  
Camel, schlep over to some small city in northwest Arkansas and then  
drive a rent-a-wreck, which'll probably be a Model T, or an Edsel, or  
a pair of pack mules, to some even smaller place where they don't even  
have a damn airport, and probably no roads, either. But if I remember  
correctly," he concluded, "you once did say that you could  
probably fly a Sopwith Camel, so, hey, I guess I can feel really, really  
_good_ about this after all."  
  
The Mountie had waited, patient as always, for his friend's tirade to  
wind down. Then, "Ray?"  
  
"Yes, Benny?"  
  
"Why am I going to Arkansas with you? And what makes you think that  
the Inspector will be willing to grant me leave to do so?"  
  
"Ah, finally, you ask something smart. The Dragon Lady and Lieutenant  
Welsh have already, in a fine show of international and interagency cooperation,  
gotten together on those two little items, and everything, every little  
detail, has been taken care of. So you and I, my friend, are off to the  
backwoods really early in the morning."  
  
"Ray?"  
  
"Yes, Benny?"  
  
"You haven't answered my question. Well, maybe you did answer one  
question, and now I know that I am to travel with you, but, why?"  
  
"You're gonna love it," Ray Vecchio grinned. As it was not  
an exactly cheerful grin, Fraser felt at liberty to doubt his friend's  
words. "You remember our good friends, the Bolt brothers?"  
No verbal reply needed; the particularly nasty shade of green that suffused  
the Mountie's face was affirmation enough. It is kinda hard to forget  
someone who hijacked an entire trainload of Mounties and their mounts,  
intending to use them as detonators for nuclear meltdown. It's even harder  
if the someone in question and his brother had hijacked you and your  
friend and tried to use you, your friend, a particularly cranky judge  
and a bunch of jurors as human bombs. People, regular, just plain old  
ordinary people tend to remember these things. So, naturally, someone  
who knew the thousands of words the Inuit used to name dog poop would,  
too. It just stands to reason.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Ray, looking down at Diefenbaker, added, spreading  
more sunshine, "you're going, too."  
  
Diefenbaker, a truly wise being, went and hid under Elaine's desk.  
  
  
  
**Same time (Central) as the above.  
**  
In the tiny (but not particularly picturesque) hamlet of Maggody, nestled  
sullenly in the Ozark Mountains just shy of the Missouri border, the  
(unofficial) secretary of the Maggody P.D. and her (so far) unindicted  
co-conspirator and best friend, the (also unofficial) receptionist, were  
sitting on either side of the police chief's (at that moment, cold and  
vacant) desk. The phone (receiver still warm) and its answering machine  
(which had been left on to record and so was blinking away inanely),  
were sitting smack in the middle of the desk. The two women stared first  
at each other then turned their attentions over to the answering machine,  
looking at it as if it were a rattlesnake.  
  
  
  
**The very next day  
**  
"Ray?"  
  
"Yes, Benny?"  
  
"I believe that sign back there said that this was a school zone."  
  
"You mean, the yellow, triangle sign?"  
  
"Yes, Ray."  
  
"You mean, the one with the drawing of a stick kid and a stick book  
on it?"  
  
"Yes, Ray."  
  
"Saw it, Benny. Don't see no school, though."  
  
"It doesn't matter, Ray," his friend argued. "You are  
now driving sixty-five miles per hour in a twenty-five mile per hour,  
clearly marked, school zone."  
  
"OK, Benny, just to keep you happy, I'll slow down," Ray said,  
tapping the brake pedal.  
  
"Ray, while I appreciate the effort, I don't think reducing your  
speed to sixty can be deemed much of an improvement."  
  
"It don't matter, Fraser. I still don't see no school." The  
Chicago detective waved one hand around, indicating the general landscape.  
"Benny, I don't see nothin' here except a bunch of trees."  
Flashing blue lights appeared from behind a screen of those trees. "And  
a cop," Ray amended. "Damn." He pulled the car over to  
the side of the blacktop road, coming to a stop on a precariously narrow,  
red dirt shoulder, and rolled down his window, admitting a ton or so  
of red dust. An elderly police cruiser rolled to a stop inches from  
the rear bumper, contributing mightily to the dust cloud. Trying in vain  
to wave away the dust, Vecchio tried to find a bright side. "Hey,  
I'm a cop, you're a cop, he's a cop -"  
  
"She's a cop," Fraser, looking in the rear-view mirror, corrected  
his friend.  
  
"She's a cop. We're on cop business. Cops don't give other cops  
tickets."  
  
"Didn't you say that once before?"  
  
"Shut up, Fraser," Ray said absently, focusing his attention  
to the woman now at his window. Tall, with dark hair pulled into a bun  
behind her head, dressed in khakis and a T shirt, the only things cop-like  
about her were her car, the badge pinned to her shirt, and the ticket  
book and radar gun in her hands. "Any trouble, Officer?" Ray  
turned on his nicest smile and as much charm as he had left. After a  
flight over the entire southern tier of the United States, an argument  
with the woman at the car rental agency over whether or not an extra  
deposit was required for the transportation of Diefenbaker, and a drive  
along some of the most twisted roads and stuck behind more pickup trucks  
and campers he'd ever seen, it wasn't much. But he tried.  
  
"You see a yellow sign back there?" the woman asked. "Triangular,  
with a stick figure on it?"  
  
"Why, yes, I did," Ray admitted. "But I didn't see no  
school."  
  
"But you did see the sign," she said, her voice as dry as the  
dust drifting through the open window. Ray nodded. "Good. We are  
in agreement, then, that you did see the sign, the stick figure --"  
  
"With a stick book," Fraser, ever helpful, joined in.  
  
"Shut up, Fraser," Ray directed.  
  
The cop looked away from Ray, took in the Mountie in his red serge uniform,  
touched upon the Stetson resting on the dash, and came to rest upon Diefenbaker  
in the back seat. Her expression did not change one bit; in fact, Ray  
would have been willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that she didn't  
even blink once. It was unnerving. Even more so was the blue engraving  
on the gold badge.  
  
"Whoa, wait a minute," Ray said. "You're the police chief?  
Chief Hanks, of Maggody?" The woman actually blinked at this, then  
nodded assent. "I'm Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D.," he  
continued, reaching for his shield.  
  
"Keep your right hand where I can see it," Chief Hanks directed.  
"And use your left hand."  
  
"Good move, you're right, Chief," Ray complemented her. "Anyway,  
I'm Detective Vecchio," he continued, very slowly handing over his  
shield case.  
  
"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Chief Hanks,"  
Fraser introduced himself. "And this is Diefenbaker," he added,  
in reply to an indignant growl.  
  
"R.C.M.P.," Chief Hanks said. "Never would have guessed.  
Nice looking wolf," she added, warily. "Got a license for him?"  
Fraser nodded, and reached into his pocket, intending to produce the  
document. "Oh, don't worry," the woman said. "What's the  
odd wolf license or two between friends? And now that we are all friends...why  
the hell should I care?"  
  
The Mountie looked worried. "I suppose, technically speaking, that  
Diefenbaker's wolf license _is_ a bit odd. True, it bears the signature  
of the Mayor of Chicago, but--"  
  
Ray turned to glare at his friend. "She's not talking about the  
license, Benny. Look," he said then to the woman, "I spoke  
with your secretary yesterday and told her we were coming today."  
His expression exhibited the concern he was rapidly developing; visions,  
nasty visions, of Southern prison farms, guards wearing mirrored sunglasses,  
and swing blades flashed through his mind. "She said she'd give  
you the message."  
  
"My...secretary." Chief Hanks actually blinked.  
  
"She said her name was Marjorie," Fraser added. "She did  
not give us the name of your receptionist, however."  
  
"My secretary, Marjorie," the woman said slowly. "And  
my receptionist. We seem to have a failure to communicate here,"  
she added, her expression odd.  
  
" _Cool Hand Luke_ ," Fraser noted. "One of Paul Newman's  
better performances."  
  
Chief Hanks looked narrowly at the Mountie, then continued, "So  
what, exactly, was the message that my Marjorie and my receptionist forgot  
to give me?"  
  
"I can't believe this!" Ray exploded. "We flew all the  
way down here to Mudbug, Arkansas --"  
  
"Maggody, Ray," Fraser corrected. "And I really don't  
think you should be upset with Chief Hanks because her staff made a...small  
mistake."  
  
"Small mistake? Small _mistake_?" Ray continued his rant,  
unaffected by Fraser's attempt at reason. "We're talkin' about international  
gunrunners, Fraser, not unpaid parking tickets. God knows where these  
Buchanon people --"  
  
"Buchanon?" Chief Hanks, who'd (unblinkingly) listened to the  
Chicago detective's raving, interrupted. Her eyes narrowed with thought.  
From the expression on her face, the thought was unpleasant.  
  
"Yes, Chief, Buchanon," Ray said caustically. "Kevin and  
Dahlia Buchanon. We're here to question them about a shipment of automatic  
weapons that was discovered in a warehouse on the docks in Chicago."  
  
"Kevin and Dahlia Buchanon," Chief Hanks mused. "That  
wouldn't happen to be Dahlia O'Neill Buchanon, would it?" She sounded  
like a person prepared to hear the very worst. She got it.  
  
"Yes, Chief," Ray, sarcasm dripping, said. "Kevin and  
Dahlia O'Neill Buchanon. Like you didn't know."  
  
"Now, Ray --"  
  
"Shut up, Fraser!"  
  
"And you told this to my secretary, Marjorie," Chief Hanks  
continued.  
  
"Yeah. What about it?" Then, Ray thought of something. "Wait  
a minute, is Marjorie a Buchanon, too?"  
  
"Yeah," sighed Chief Hanks, "probably one of the smarter  
ones."  
  
"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Chief Hanks," Vecchio apologized, distressed.  
"I didn't know...I didn't mean to mean that...I mean, I didn't mean  
to say..."  
  
"I think what Detective Vecchio is trying to say," Fraser interpreted,  
"is that, unaware as he was that your secretary --"  
  
"Marjorie," Chief Hanks said.  
  
"Your secretary, Marjorie, was, indeed, a member of the alleged  
\--" Ray rolled his eyes heavenwards at that, which Fraser ignored,  
"suspects' family, and so was not intending to say that, that is,  
he did not mean to implicate you --"  
  
"You're making it even worse, Benny."  
  
Chief Hanks waved her radar gun and ticket book at them. "You didn't  
mean to indicate that I was covering up for a pair of...gunrunning international  
terrorists." Her mouth tightened in a smile; for some reason, neither  
man thought it was meant to convey enjoyment. "I am _so_ relieved.  
OK, guys, just follow this highway at a _reasonable_ rate of speed,  
preferably the posted limit, into town, and pull in in front of the police  
station. You can't miss it, it's across from the Flamingo Inn."  
At the word ' _flamingo'_ the wolf in the backseat whined pathetically  
and tried to crawl under a floormat. Chief Hanks' eyebrows raised at  
that, but she did not bother to ask about it. Instead, she continued  
with her directions. "In town, on the left. I really want to hear  
this story from the beginning. Really." With that, she pivoted neatly  
on one sneakered foot and stomped back to her patrol car, sending up  
little puffs of red dust with each stomp.  
  
Ray watched in the rear view mirror as the chief yanked opened the driver's  
side door, threw the ticket book and radar gun in, slid behind the wheel,  
gripping it tightly...and began banging her head against it. "Wanna  
analyze that, Sigmund?" he asked the Mountie, who then turned to  
look out the back window. Fraser, rubbing his eyebrow, contented himself  
with looking puzzled and remaining silent. A whine came from the backseat.  
"No one asked you," Ray snapped.           
  
  
  
**Same day, down the road and on the left....  
**  
"Now, I just want to make sure I've got this straight," Chief  
Arly Hanks, seated behind her desk, directed towards the two visiting  
policemen. They were seated across from her in not-too-comfortable, rickety  
wooden chairs. Ray and Fraser could see a slightly curved red mark under  
the police chief's bangs; fortunately, it appeared to be fading. Diefenbaker  
was in a corner, determinedly not facing the open door, through which  
he could have had an excellent view of the faded neon flamingo across  
the street. "You say that a cache of automatic weapons was discovered  
in a warehouse on the Chicago docks, and that the names of Kevin and  
Dahlia O'Neill Buchanon, along with their address here in Maggody, were  
on the cases. Is that it, more or less?"  
  
"More or less," Ray acknowledged.  
  
"The crates were labeled as coming from Ozark Folkworks, with shipping  
manifests listing such items as corn husk dolls, weavings, and other  
such items," Fraser added. "Of course, when a crate labeled  
'sorghum syrup' exploded, dock officials became a little suspicious."  
  
"More or less," Ray repeated.  
  
"Of course," Chief Hanks said. "Sorghum is not especially  
noted for its incendiary capabilities. And your government is involved,  
how, Constable? I mean, besides having the desire to keep Canada safe  
from combustible breakfast condiments?"  
  
"The delivery address was an art import company in Toronto which  
has been under suspicion for some time as being involved in illegal arms  
sales. Of course, company officials denied any knowledge of the materials  
found in the warehouse and any knowledge of a company called Ozark Folkworks."  
  
"What a surprise. But then, I haven't heard of them either,"  
Hanks admitted, "what with my subscription to the _New York Times  
Art Review_ being lapsed and all. So I'll make some calls and check  
around. This part of the state, Maggody excluded, is fairly infested  
with artists and craftspeople." She sighed glumly. "It is also,  
unfortunately, infested with pockets of anti-government types, so as  
badly as I want to...and trust me, Detective, Constable," she said,  
looking each soberly in his eyes, "Lord knows I really want to...I  
can't discount your story, at least for location. As for instigators..."  
she broke off, and chewed her bottom lip a bit. "Are you sure -"  
  
"Arly! I gotta talk to you!" came a voice from outside. Chief  
Hanks closed her eyes and sighed. Her visitors turned to see the voice's  
owner enter the door, accompanied by an unbelievable funk. Both voice  
and funk belonged to what had to be the most stereotypical hillbilly  
in existence, and the rankest human being either Vecchio or Fraser had  
ever seen (or smelled). Considering they were fresh from the mean streets  
of Chicago, that is saying a lot.  
  
Chief Hanks opened one eye, and ordered, "Not now, Raz."  
  
"But Arly, Marjorie's been upset by sump'n strange goin' on, up  
on Cotter's Ridge," the funky stereotype protested through tobacco-stained  
lips, mustache, and scraggly beard.  
  
Ray was alerted by the mention of a known name. "Marjorie?"  
he asked, turning towards Chief Hanks. He was unsettled to see her eyes,  
both fully open now, holding an unholy gleam of amusement in them.  
  
"Raz, you say Marjorie's been upset. She with you now?" Hanks  
asked her unsavory townsman.  
  
"You know she is, Arly," said unsavory type told her. "She's  
out in the pickup now."  
  
"Why don't you go and bring her in?" she requested sweetly.  
  
The old fossil looked surprised, almost overwhelmed. "You'd let  
'er in here this time?"  
          
Arly Hanks carefully laced her hands before her on her desk. "Raz  
Buchanon, these two gentlemen here have come all the way from Chicago  
and Canada just to see Marjorie. Of course she may come in." Her  
wide open eyes and her expression of perfect innocence caused Ray to  
feel uneasy and just a little irked. Being Ray, he put his suspicions  
into words.  
  
"Chief Hanks, just _what_ the _hell_ is going on here?"  
  
"Ray!" Fraser looked scandalized. Turning to the old man, he  
asked, "Mr. Buchanon? Could you introduce us to Kevin and Dahlia  
Buchanon, also?"  
  
"Could ifin' I knowed where they was," Mr. Buchanon said. "Ain't  
seen 'em today. Ain't looked for 'em, neither. It's just me an' Marjorie.  
You gotta make it quick, though. I gotta go by th' store an' git sumthin'  
for Marjorie, she's been feelin' poorly lately after eatin' that quiche.  
An' it's almost time for the Tournament of Champions on Jeopardy, an'  
Marjorie, she'll be right upset ifin' she misses it, havin' follered  
it all week, more 'r less." Raz turned to the two men, "I just  
can't work that danged VCR. What with all of them buttons an' lights  
an' things."  
  
"Oh, it won't take too long, Raz," the police chief reassured  
him. Hearing this, the old coot went back outside. Soon they could hear  
a vehicle door opening, and heard the old man talking to someone. That  
someone, from the sounds of the wheezing and grunting, had a terrible  
respiratory problem. Dief, still in his corner, turned around with a  
_food!_ expression on his face, which was explained when Raz Buchanon  
and his companion entered the room.  
  
"That's... a pig," a stupefied Ray observed.  
  
"A pedigreed American Landrace," Fraser, typically himself,  
added.  
  
"Marjorie," Chief Hanks murmured dulcetly.  
  
"You sure do know your pigs, son," Raz Buchanon, a combination  
of pride and affection on his face and in his voice, complemented the  
Mountie. Marjorie contented herself with eyeing everyone in the room  
through exceptionally evil pink eyes. Diefenbaker retreated behind Chief  
Hanks's desk. Ray experienced a fleeting desire to join the wolf, but  
restrained himself. _(I can do this, I'm a Chicago cop.)_ To calm  
himself, the Detective inhaled deeply, and was hit by the double whammy  
of lack of hygiene (human) and addition of pig (Marjorie).  
  
"You boys think you can handle the interrogation by yourselves?"  
Chief Hanks, her voice suspiciously demure, asked. "Or should I  
call for backup?"  
  
All was quiet, except for Ray's coughing.  
  
Finally, Fraser (naturally) broke the silence. "Marjorie is a splendid  
animal, Mr. Buchanon," he complimented the old man.  
  
"Absolutely lovely," Vecchio added, still coughing. The old  
coot positively beamed.  
  
"Thanks, Raz," the police chief said to the old man. "I  
think you and Marjorie can go on now. Don't want her to miss the Tournament  
of Champions. Hope she gets to feeling better soon. And leave the door  
open."  
  
The old man looked grateful; his porcine companion continued to look  
surly. "Why, thankee, Arly. Gents," he nodded to Fraser and  
Vecchio. Then man and animal departed, to everyone's relief. To everyone's  
greater relief, so did the smell.  
  
The two men turned to look, one annoyed, the other bemused, at the police  
chief. The police chief looked at them in turn, her mouth twitching,  
until she finally dissolved into laughter. Fraser joined in, then, reluctantly  
at first, then with appreciation for the absurdity of it all, Ray. After  
a few minutes, Chief Hanks wiped her eyes with the back of a hand, then  
said, "Why don't we start over, from the beginning, gentlemen?"  
  
"I first came to Chicago on the trail of my father's -" Fraser  
started.  
  
"Not that far in the beginning, Benny," Ray corrected. "I  
think what Chief Hanks means is, now that we're all through pissin' each  
other off, maybe we can all start to figure out what's going on."  
  
"More or less," Arly Hanks added, deadpan. Ray shot her a suspicious  
glance, which she returned, unrepentant. She first turned on the answering  
machine by her phone. "You have no messages," the mechanical  
voice informed her, at which her eyebrows rose. She then picked up the  
receiver from the old rotary phone and dialed in a number. Both Ben and  
Ray could hear the ringing; after ten rings, Arly broke the connection,  
frowned, then dialed another number. This time, the other party answered  
before the first ring could finish; began talking that soon, too. Arly  
was unable to do anything but listen for a good two or three minutes,  
until she was able to break in (or maybe the other party ran out of breath).  
"No, Eileen, this is Arly. I've not seen Kevin or Dahlia, either.  
When? Yesterday?" Arly propped her forehead upon one hand, a look  
of calm resignation on her face. "They talked to Ruby Bee. Of course.  
And they borrowed the car. Didn't know Earl let Kevin drive anymore.  
Of course. I understand, with the baby coming and all, they'd want a  
little time to themselves. Yeah. Well," she tried to reassure the  
other woman, "they'll probably call you from Farberville any time  
now. But I'll check into it, and let you know. You just try to calm down,  
Eileen. 'Bye." Chief Hanks gently returned the receiver to its cradle.  
The, folding her arms upon the desk in front of her, she buried her head,  
face down.  
  
Total and absolute silence.  
  
The two men looked at each other, puzzled, then focused their attention  
on the top of the police chief's head. "Chief Hanks?" Fraser  
brought himself to break the quiet.  
  
"Yes?" came the muffled reply.  
  
"Are you all right?" the Mountie asked cautiously. At least  
she wasn't banging her head. Again.  
  
"Just lovely," she assured him. As her head was still buried,  
her voice was muffled, but still understandable. "Couldn't be better."  
  
Ray couldn't decide whether to be concerned for a professional colleague  
or concerned that he was supposed to work with same colleague. "Who  
is this Ruby Bee?" he finally asked. "Another Buchanon?"  
  
Arly's head snapped up at that. "I never used to think so,"  
she said. Ray found it difficult to judge her expression. The words _amused  
_ and _indignant_ came to mind, though. Along with the phrases _  
somebody please shoot me_ and _I could kill you now and no one  
would blame me._ "Gentlemen," she said, straightening up  
in her chair. "Gentlemen, I propose that we go across the street  
and have a little meeting with my...secretary and my receptionist. Do  
not, I repeat, do _not_ be fooled by what you see or hear. Those  
two are among the most devious and... and..." she sputtered, evidently  
at a loss for words and overwhelmed with emotion. "The most _devious  
_ two people you will meet," she concluded, "ever."  
  
"Who are they?" Ray asked.  
  
Arly sighed. "Ruby Bee Hanks and Estelle Oppers, my mother and her  
best friend."  
  
  
  
**Meanwhile, up on Cotter's Ridge...  
**  
A HumVee bounced to a stop on a red dirt trail. Its driver, a man with  
crew cut hair and wearing military camo and boots (custom tailored and  
handmade, respectively), bolted out and ran towards a dilapidated shack,  
stumbling over assorted rotten logs and rocks. Seeing a similarly dressed  
and shod man emerge from the shack, he snarled, "Cops!"  
  
"Where?" the other man said, frozen like a deer caught in headlights.  
His eyes, liberally flecked with yellow, scanned the area nervously.  
"Don't see no cops," he said, relieved. "Just see a bunch  
of trees."  
  
The other man, exasperated, was becoming less and less enthused with  
his partner. "Not here, you idiot! Back in that hick town."  
  
The idiot blinked, and said, "Well, we knew there was a cop there,  
that woman. So that's just one cop, singular, and not the plural _cops._ "  
He paused, considering. "Besides," he finally continued, "we're  
just a coupla good old boys from Texas, just up here to do a little huntin'  
and drinkin' and visitin' with family, Bert. Why should the cop care?"  
  
Bert wished for about the fiftieth time that day that he could simply  
shoot the moron he was working with, but he needed the help. Besides,  
Mom would be really upset with him if he killed his younger brother.  
She might understand, even sympathize, but she'd still take it badly.  
Trying to explain the situation, he said, "Couple of more cops  
came in, according to what that old fool of a hillbilly said at the  
super market. One's Chicago, the other's Canadian, a Mountie."  
  
His brother perked up at the last bit of information. "The guys  
in red? The ones who ride the horses and sing?"  
  
Bert sighed tiredly. "Yes, Ernie, the guys in red. But this one's  
not on a horse, and the only singing he's doing is about that little  
mishap in the warehouse."  
  
Ernie blinked rapidly. Then, with a flash of brilliance, "That could  
be bad, couldn't it?" He looked upset, then fretfully asked, "What'll  
we do, Bert?"  
  
" _We,_ Ernie? What will _we_ do?" Bert said sarcastically.  
"We will do what we always do. You will stay here and keep our guests  
occupied, and I will take care of everything else. OK?"  
  
His brother looked relieved. "OK, Bert. But I'd really rather not  
go back in there." A growl, somewhat like that of a grizzly bear  
with both hemorrhoids and an attitude problem, issued forth from the  
cabin. Bert felt a flash of sympathy, but, looking at his brother's terrified,  
vapid expression, felt it extinguish quickly.  
  
"That's your part of the job," Bert reminded him. "Just  
keep a lid on things here, OK?" Reluctantly, Ernie nodded and, more  
reluctantly, re-entered the shack. Bert rolled his eyes (only a speck  
of yellow in the right iris) and muttered to the heavens, or perhaps  
to the late Jim Henson, "I'd been better off with the puppet."  
  
  
  
**Across the street at the Flamingo...  
**  
Arly rose from her chair and headed for the door. Stopping there, she  
turned to face the two men. "So, how do y'all want to play this?  
Good cop, bad cop," she said, indicating first Fraser, then Ray,  
then, herself, "thoroughly pissed off cop?"  
  
"Your call, Chief," Ray said agreeably.  
  
The quartet (three human, one lupine) walked across the street to the  
bar and grill, the smell of fried chicken drifting towards them on the  
cool breeze. The wolf, torn between phobia and food, obviously decided  
to follow his stomach and ran to the door. Someone exited, holding the  
door ajar, and Dief shot in. The upstanding local citizen, his own mouth  
agape at the sight of the Mountie in full uniform, stood and helpfully  
kept holding the door for them. "Evenin', Arly," the man finally  
was able to stutter out.  
  
"Yeah," Arly answered, entering, Ray and Benny behind her.  
  
The Mountie turned towards the man, saying, "Thank you, kindly,"  
before being swallowed by the relatively dark room.  
  
"Yeah," the helpful citizen replied, ducking his head in to  
stare at Fraser. Catching the eye of the bar and grill's proprietress,  
he promptly shut the door and scurried away.  
  
"Why, Arly, honey," came a voice from the end of the bar. "Who  
are your friends?" The speaker was an incredibly thin, middle-aged  
woman with a mass of bright red curls. She took a delicate sip from the  
glass of sherry she held. Behind the counter, a motherly woman was busily  
scrubbing the immaculate counter top so vigorously that her blond beehive  
wobbled. Arly didn't bother to answer the speaker but contented herself  
with staring at the scrubwoman.  
  
The blond woman ignored the police chief, focusing instead upon the  
detective and the Mountie. "What can I do for you two boys?"  
she asked, her voice as motherly as her appearance. "Y'all hungry?  
I got fried chicken, mashed potatoes an' gravy, purple-hull peas, biscuits,  
and a blackberry cobbler for dessert, if you want it." Diefenbaker,  
ever alert when food was involved, whined. The lady looked over the counter  
at the wolf, then up at the two men. "Nice looking wolf," she  
said.  
  
"Ruby Bee Hanks," Arly said through gritted teeth, indicating  
the woman behind the counter. "And her partner in crime, Estelle  
Oppers. This is Detective Ray Vecchio of Chicago, and Constable Benton  
Fraser of -"  
  
"Tuktoyaktuk, the Northwest Territory," Fraser said, helpful  
as always.  
  
"Tuktoyaktuk, the Northwest Territory," Arly repeated dutifully.  
"But I'm pretty sure you're already familiar with the Detective's  
and Constable's names. They're here on official business, the wolf included.  
Now, officially, I think the two of you could be brought in on charges  
of tampering with police property --"  
  
"Now, Arly, you know I don't know how to operate that danged answerin'  
machine," Ruby Bee protested. "All those buttons an' lights  
an' all. It's about as bad as a VCR."  
  
Arly smiled sourly. "And who said the property in question was an  
answering machine?" she asked. "OK, how about lying to police  
officers during the course of an official investigation? Not that that'd  
be a first for you two."  
  
"Now you wait just one minute, missy," the other lady protested,  
setting her glass on the counter with enough force to cause Ruby Bee  
to wince. "Ariel Hanks, you know neither your mother or I'd lie  
to anyone, much less a policeman." She smiled graciously at the  
two policemen, who had, prudently, remained silent. "You bein' in  
law enforcement and all yourself."  
  
Ruby Bee sniffed, offended. "And you sit there, in front of these  
two nice young officers, and call your mother a liar? They're gonna think  
you been raised in a barn."  
  
"Behind a bar, more likely," Arly corrected her. "And  
given a little more exposure to you and Nancy Drew here," she continued,  
gesturing towards Estelle, "while they might not conclude that either  
of you intentionally lied, they should be able to tell that your grasps  
of the truth are Munchausian to the extreme."  
  
Estelle looked puzzled. "I don't remember no Monk Housin,"  
she said. "How about you, Ruby Bee?"  
  
Ruby Bee looked interested. "Don't recall one, either. He a preacher  
like Brother Verber?"  
  
Ray glanced at his Arkansas colleague, who presented the appearance of  
a person working very very hard to not explode like a crate of sorghum  
syrup. Having a mother of his own, he could sympathize. But as sympathy  
was getting them nowhere, he decided to, if not take charge, at least  
become somewhat more involved. "Is that offer of fried chicken and  
everything still open?" he asked, unleashing his best lady-killer  
smile.  
  
Evidently it was the right tactic, for almost instantly he and Benny  
were treated like long-lost and dearly beloved relatives, were seated  
at a table the back, supplied with huge glasses of iced tea by Estelle,  
while Ruby Bee sat plates heaped with obscene amounts of food in front  
of them. Dief wasn't forgotten; the wolf had what looked like an entire  
chicken to himself, carefully and lovingly de-boned.  
  
The Mountie felt moved to protest. "Really, Mrs. Hanks --"  
  
"Just call me Ruby Bee."  
  
"Ruby Bee," Fraser continued obediently, "he really doesn't  
need that much. You'll spoil him."  
  
"Nonsense," his gracious hostess said. "Nothing I wouldn't  
do for anyone, whether they deserved it or not." She then pointedly  
sniffed and sat a plate down in front of her daughter with perhaps a  
bit more force than necessary. Soon Ruby Bee and Estelle joined them  
at the table, happy to talk.  
  
"We didn't mean for you to get the idea that we worked at the police  
department," Estelle said. "It's just that her mother and me  
like to help out Arly with little things like straightening and cleaning  
up. She's so busy, havin' to patrol the whole town and all."  
  
"Thing is, between hearin' that you were callin' all the way from  
Chicago, and that you were wantin' to talk with Kevin and Dahlia, we  
just got a bit flustered," a sincere Ruby Bee added.  
  
"And the answering machine?" a skeptical Arly asked.  
  
"I guess I just mashed the wrong button or somethin' when I was  
straightenin' your desk yesterday," her mother told her.  
  
The police chief looked unimpressed by such maternal care. "Must  
have decided to do a little extra today, Ruby Bee," Arly said. "I  
had one message on there this morning before I left. Yet when I returned  
with the Constable and Detective Vecchio this afternoon, the tape was  
as empty as the average Buchanon's head."  
  
"Well," her mother admitted, "I did just pop in and out  
for a second. That window was open, and dry as it's been, I didn't want  
the dust to settle. Not with such important visitors comin to town."  
Both Ruby Bee and Estelle smiled warmly at the two men.  
  
Taking advantage of such blatant goodwill, Fraser said, "Perhaps  
you just happened to run into Kevin and Dahlia yesterday, after you  
left the police department."  
  
Ray, following suit, added, "And, perhaps, you might have, oh, I  
don't know, just talked about their plans for the weekend? Maybe made  
a few suggestions of your own?"  
  
"I do believe we did see those two young things right after we cleaned  
up the office," Estelle admitted.  
  
Ruby Bee nodded. "Why, I think you two young men are right. We just  
got to talking about what a shame it was they hadn't had much quiet time  
alone together since they got married. I mean, what with their honeymoon  
bein' ruint when they were held hostage by that Iranian terrorist in  
that cafe."  
  
"He was a Muslim extremist, and it was a gas station," Estelle  
corrected her dear friend.  
  
Ruby Bee looked a bit upset with being contradicted. "Now, Estelle  
Oppers, are you going to sit there and tell me that I don't remember  
what happened?" Understandably annoyed, the Flamingo Motel's owner  
and operator's voice had increased in volume.  
          
Estelle, in turn, was now miffed. "Rubella Belinda Hanks, you don't  
have to yell; I'm sittin' right here and I ain't deaf, you know."  
  
Diefenbaker, who had been following the exchange between Estelle and  
his new best friend, Ruby Bee, wuffed.  
  
"She didn't say _Dief_ , she said _deaf_ ," the Mountie  
told the wolf. "Like you."  
  
Ray snorted. "Like he's supposed to be."  
  
Fraser looked upset at Ray's cynicism. "Now, Ray...but the matter  
of Diefenbaker's handicap is not important right now." The wolf  
whined in protest. "Forgive me, Diefenbaker," Fraser apologized,  
"of course it is of extreme importance to you. Just not to this  
case." Diefenbaker did not look absolutely convinced.  
          
"He talks to the wolf?" Arly asked Ray, who nodded. "And  
the wolf talks back?" Ray shrugged his shoulders and made what-can-I-say  
gestures with his hands. "Well, as much fun as all of this has been,"  
Arly said, sounding eerily like Lieutenant Welsh, "I think we've  
strayed a mite from the original point. And that point is that you two,"  
she pointed to Ruby Bee and Estelle, "intercepted your call,"  
she then gestured towards Ray, "and then took it upon yourselves  
to... remind Kevin and Dahlia that their days alone were dwindling down  
to a precious few. Well, you probably had to say it in much simpler terms,  
seeing that you were talking to Kevin and Dahlia, but the upshot is,  
they've gone off in Earl's car and no one has heard anything of them  
or from them since yesterday."  
  
That last tidbit upset the two older women. "Why didn't you tell  
me that?" an irate Ruby Bee demanded. "His poor mama must be  
must be near out of her mind with worry."  
  
"Poor Eileen," Estelle said fretfully. Then, with exasperation,  
"Honestly, Arly, you should have told us."  
  
"Do you notice," Arly said to Ray and Fraser, "that, somehow,  
I've become the bad guy here?" She sighed. "Tell you what,  
why don't you two get settled in, then meet me back at the police office  
in about, oh, thirty minutes or so. I'll make some more calls, see what  
I can find out, then. . .we'll see what we will see." The police  
chief rose from the table and started to walk away, but paused, and looked  
at Ruby Bee. " _Not_ number five; I've got enough trouble as  
it is," the police chief said, cryptically. Ruby Bee shook her head  
no. Arly, seemingly assured, nodded at her mother and Estelle, then,  
to Fraser and Ray, said, "In a bit, gentlemen." In just a  
few steps she was out the door.  
  
  
  
**Back at the Flamingo Motel, Unit 4:  
**  
"Well, it ain't the Hilton," Ray said, surveying the room.  
  
"But it's not the Bates Motel," Benny reminded him.  
  
Both men were right. While the Michelin Guide wouldn't even give it a  
look, much less a mention, the room, with its two double beds, an old  
but comfortable overstuffed chair, ancient dresser, and pink-tiled, utilitarian  
bathroom was exceptionally clean and tidy. Diefenbaker had already claimed  
one of the beds, and was curled upon the faded chenille spread, asleep.  
Ray's suitcases (he'd actually limited himself to two) and Benny's backpack  
had been removed from their rental car and their belongings stashed.  
  
"I do wonder what Chief Hanks meant about number five, though,"  
Fraser mused.  
  
Ray frowned. "I don't even want to know. Maybe number five _is_  
Bates, or the entry to the Twilight Zone. Maybe it's where they send  
nosy Yankee cops to die."  
  
Fraser corrected his friend. "As I am from Canada, I do not see  
that I can be termed a Yankee." After giving the matter some more  
thought, he continued, Fraser-fashioned, "Although if you mean the  
word as an adjective describing anyone from north of the historic Mason-Dixon  
Line, then such a description would be correct, since Canada is, indeed,  
well to the north of that boundary."  
  
Ray stood by, amazingly patient (considering he was Ray) until Benny  
wore down. But since the Mountie was about to open his mouth again, Ray  
felt it time for evasive measures. "It really doesn't matter, Benny.  
Isn't it time we go back over for our meeting with Arly?" Then,  
with calculated carelessness, Ray asked, "What do you think of Chief  
Hanks?"  
  
Fraser concentrated, considering his answer. "I think the Chief  
is probably an able and efficient officer of the law, and while her attitude  
towards her mother is a bit disturbing, I suppose, given the fact that  
Mrs. Hanks and her friend _did_..." he broke off, unwilling  
to harshly describe two ladies who'd been so nice.  
  
"Mislead us? Failed to mention that we were coming? Made her daughter  
look like an idiot? Made _us_ look like idiots?" Ray asked.  
"Take your choice, Benny."  
  
The Mountie looked like he was actually considering his friend's words.  
Finally, Fraser said, "Actually, Ray, I feel more concern about  
the events the two ladies described. If even half of it is true, and  
since Chief Hanks declined to dispute what they said, I am inclined to  
believe them, the the likelihood that Kevin and Dahlia O'Neill Buchanon  
can be seen as viable suspects seems remote."  
  
Ray, his head tilted, asked his friend, "Don't you mean _alleged_  
suspects?"  
  
The Mountie looked annoyed for a second. "Now, Ray, if you want  
to sit here and debate legal semantics, we could be here for some time.  
But I really think our time here would be better used in conferring with  
Chief Hanks in her office as she had suggested earlier."  
  
Ray slapped his forehead with the heel of one hand, a look of exaggerated  
astonishment covering his face. "Great heavens, Sergeant Preston!  
I'd have _never_ thought to do that."  
  
"Now, Ray, there's no need to be so silly," Fraser, moving  
towards the door, reproved his friend. "I do believe that you and  
she share a rapport," he added as they walked out the door.  
  
"A ... rapport."  
  
Fraser blinked. "Why, yes, Ray. A feeling of harmony or kinship.  
The ability to work -"  
  
"Benny."  
  
"Yes, Ray?"  
  
"Could you please explain why we have such a great rapport, when  
I sometimes would really like to kill you?"  
  
"Very likely not, Ray."  
  
"I didn't think so, Benny."  
  
A pause, then, "Then why did you ask, Ray?"  
  
"Never mind. Just never mind. Let's go and experience a rapport  
with Arly."  
  
  
**  
Back over at the Maggody Police Department...  
**  
"You got a copy of one of the labels found on those crates?"  
Arly Hanks asked her big city law enforcement colleagues. Ray reached  
into the pocket of the Armani jacket that, between the dust and the essence  
of Marjorie and her faithful companion, he was convinced, would never,  
ever be clean again, and removed a photocopy, which he handed over to  
Arly. The Maggody Chief of Police thanked him absently, devoting her  
attention to the copy. "Okie-dokie. Typewritten or computer generated.  
No way Kevin Buchanon could have produced this."  
  
"Even if he doesn't have either, couldn't he or his wife have borrowed  
a machine, or used one somewhere?" Fraser asked.  
  
Arly grimaced, then rubbed her nose. "This is kind of hard for someone  
who hasn't had experience with a Buchanon or as an anthropologist, or  
maybe, both, to understand. You recall that I said Marjorie was probably  
one of the smarter members of the Buchanon family?"  
  
"Yes," Ray cautiously replied.  
  
"That was really unfair... to Marjorie. That sow probably knows  
more of the alphabet than Kevin ever will, and, unfortunately, Dahlia,  
the brains of the two, is not a whole lot better off." A pause,  
then, "Even if she can operate the buttons on a VCR."  
  
"Oh," both Fraser and Ray said. "What you're sayin',"  
Ray then said, green eyes glinting with mischief, "is that the Buchanon  
family gene pool is just a bit shallow."  
  
"The family tree goes straight up and down," Arly returned  
the ball to Ray's side of the net.  
  
"They've been to the same well a few times too many," Ray volleyed.  
  
"The phrase 'aunt grandma' is seen as perfectly normal," Arly  
shot back.  
  
"If ...if...I can't think of anything else," Ray had to confess.  
Game, set and match.  
  
Fraser, with one of his patented puzzled expressions, looked from one  
to the other. "If I understand what you are saying, you mean that  
it is highly unlikely that either Kevin Buchanon or his wife Dahlia could  
be implicated in, besides be the authors of, such an elaborate criminal  
enterprise."  
  
"You sure do know your village idiots, son," Arly, drawl exaggerated,  
complemented the Mountie. "And, unfortunately," her expression  
now morose, "this particular pair of village idiots has disappeared.  
That is _never_ good news."  
  
"Do you think their disappearance is linked to anything more than  
the result of their conversation with your mother and Miss Oppers?"  
Fraser asked.  
  
"If we were talking about anyone else on earth, and I do mean anyone,  
no," Arly told him. "But since we're talking about Kevin and  
Dahlia...it's been my unfortunate experience that if something has hit  
the fan, even if they didn't produce it, sling it, know about it, or  
even recognize it for what it is, Kevin and Dahlia are involved. God  
help us, everyone." The police chief propped her chin upon her hands  
and looked, moodily, at some unseen point. "I've contacted the sheriff's  
office, but since Harve has more than his fair share of Buchanon-induced  
problems, he's prone to view Kevin and Dahlia as my own particular albatrosses."  
  
"Lucky you," Ray expressed his sympathy.  
  
"Oh, and you, two, too," she informed them. "Just too,  
too lucky, you two are. Since it's also the beginning of deer season  
this weekend, there's been an outbreak of a particularly nasty epidemic  
of buck fever at the sheriff's office, so while Harve'll spread the  
word and do what he can, we're pretty much on our own."  
  
"What are your recommendations, Chief Hanks?" Fraser asked.  
  
Arly considered him carefully. "First, stop calling me Chief Hanks;  
it makes me feel like I'm the last of the tribe. Call me Arly."  
  
The Mountie looked repentant. "I apologize, Arly."  
  
One eyebrow elevated, non-commentarily. Arly then continued, "Next,  
I would recommend getting a really good night's sleep. Tomorrow, earlier  
than I would like, we'll throw ourselves on the mercy of Ruby Bee for  
breakfast and provisions, put on stupid-looking, state-mandated hunting  
vests and hats, and then go driving over hill and dale, occasionally  
descending from our cop chariot so as to find two stray Buchanon lambs  
and their gunrunning buddies. And, oh, yes, all this while also trying  
to not get shot by every idiot from the surrounding five states who feels  
that it's his or her God-given, second-amendment right to come here with  
more armament than most Third World nations, drink more beer than Milwaukee  
makes in one year, and kill deer. Or each other."  
  
"Or," Ray said gloomily, "the odd law enforcement officer  
or so."  
  
"I take it the woods will be very crowded," Fraser noted.  
  
Arly nodded. "You happen to notice a caravan of trucks, RVs, and  
everything else on four wheels migrating this way today?" she asked  
them. They, in turn, nodded. "They, their occupants, their occupants'  
shiny guns, and about two thousand dogs," Dief, on the floor, looked  
interested in that, "will be out there tomorrow. Along with assorted  
snakes, skunks, bugs, lions, tigers, and bears."  
  
"Oh, my," Ray, eyes closed, moaned, slumping in his chair.  
Then, squinting through one eye, he said, "You said ...bugs. What  
kinds?"  
  
"I would imagine typical insects found in pine forests such as ticks,"  
Fraser informed him helpfully.  
  
"Oh, _great_ ," Ray whined. "Carnivorous, blood-sucking  
things that cause... what's that disease they cause? lemon fever? ...and  
we get to go out and be the human smorgasbords."  
  
"Lyme disease, Ray," Arly told him. "Hope you have some  
hiking boots. Eyeing the expensive suit the detective was wearing, she  
added, "And some clothes you're not particularly attached to. Just  
in case we meet a skunk or two, or even worse, Diesel Buchanon."  
  
"Diesel Buchanon?" Fraser asked.  
  
"Lives in a cave and bites the heads off of dead squirrels,"  
Arly informed him. "Which is an improvement, 'cause he used to bite  
'em while they were still alive."  
  
Ray just dropped his head, despair personified.  
  
  
  
**In Flamingo Unit #4, really too early the next morning...  
  
** "What the hell is this?" an outraged Ray demanded. "No  
_way_ I'm gonna wear this crap."  
He held the offending  
items, a bright orange baseball cap and an even brighter orange vinyl  
vest, as if they were dead rats. While his khakis, long-sleeved polo  
shirt, and fleece jacket were more L. L. Bean than Armani, they still  
wouldn't work with Day-Glo accessories. Fraser, in jeans, his favorite  
flannel shirt, and (of course), his Stetson, had already donned the vinyl  
vest and was looking at Ray with practiced patience.  
  
Arly, who had delivered the disparaged items, leaned against the closed  
door of the motel room, her arms crossed. She, like the Mountie, was  
also in jeans, flannel, and orange vinyl. At that moment, she was tightly  
holding both her cap and her temper, and was looking at Ray with pure  
irritation. "Just shut up and wear 'em," she instructed the  
Chicago detective. "It's state law."  
  
Ray scowled in return. It was five in the morning; he hadn't had any  
coffee yet and so was feeling less than accommodating. "You got  
a law in in this state to make people look stupid?"  
  
"Nah," Arly said. "Like everyone else on earth, people  
around here can usually do that on their own."  
  
Fraser indicated the vest in the detective's hand. "It's for your  
own protection, Ray," the Mountie said reasonably. "It's to  
let you stand out and be seen in the woods."  
  
"I'd _have_ to stand out in the woods to be seen wearin' this  
crap," Ray assured his friend. "No where else. Besides,"  
he said irritably, "I don't notice _you_ wearing a stupid orange  
hat, Benny. Or are Mounties exempt from law in Arkansas or somethin'?"  
He looked towards Arly for support. She, in turn, looked pointedly at  
Fraser's hat. With a sigh, the Mountie carefully removed his Stetson,  
looked at it with regret, then carefully placed it upon the battered  
dresser. Picking up his own orange hat, he placed it upon his head and  
tried to look as if he could bear it. He wasn't very convincing. With  
grim satisfaction, Ray then put on the disparaged orange vest.  
  
"Great. You wanna go get some coffee or what?" Arly said tiredly.  
Like Ray, she was not a morning person. "So just put on your damn  
hat," she ordered Ray, "and let's go."  
  
Ray shook his head and crossed his arms. "Uh-uh. Nothin' doin'.  
No way. Not 'til you do."  
  
Arly glared at Ray through narrowed, sleep-deprived eyes. "OK. All  
_right_. Here," she said, jamming the cap on her head and pulling  
her pony tail through the back opening. "I got the damn thing on.  
Happy now?" She then yanked open the door and indignantly stomped  
out.  
  
Ray grinned happily at Fraser. "Kinda cute when she's mad,"  
he said, "even wearing nuclear popsicle orange." Adjusting  
his own cap at a rakish angle, Ray followed the police chief out the  
door, his own pace jaunty. Fraser and Diefenbaker exchanged knowing,  
long-suffering looks. "At least she hasn't hit him with a gun or  
a car," the Mountie told the wolf. Eyeing the woman's retreating,  
rigid back, he amended, "Yet." Then he and the wolf went to  
join the others for breakfast.  
  
  
  
**Later, after massive ingestation of caffeine...**  
  
Ruby Bee's breakfast exceeded the previous night's meal. Coffee, sinfully  
rich and dark, helped improve Ray's attitude. Scrambled eggs, biscuits,  
ham slices almost the size of the plates...not too shabby a way to start  
a day, even so damn early in the morning. Except Arly didn't seem so  
impressed; she poured herself another cup of coffee and sat, brooding,  
watching the steam curl in the air.  
  
Ruby Bee came from the kitchen with another basket of biscuits and more  
ham. "You boys need anything else? How about you, Arly?" Estelle  
was not there, having opted instead for another few hours of sleep. Ruby  
Bee reigned supreme.  
  
"No, but thank you kindly," Fraser said. A whine from the ever-famished  
wolf was met with a stern, "You are a predator. We are about to  
go into a forest. If you eat any more, you'll dull what's left of your  
natural instincts." An indignant sniff, much like one of Ruby Bee's,  
answered him.  
  
Ray, too, indicated that he was finished. Arly, however, still sat,  
eyes unfocused, her coffee untouched. Concerned, Ray leaned towards her  
and asked, "Arly? Is something wrong?    
With a start, Arly blinked. "Marjorie," she breathed.  
  
"Will she be joining us?" Fraser asked, his blue eyes suddenly  
wary.  
  
"Marjorie, upset by something on Cotter's Ridge...Kevin and Dahlia,  
missing...," Arly continued, looking not at Fraser but at her mother,  
"and gunrunners. Of course!" She said with calm resignation,  
eyes and one hand raised to the heavens, "Robin's cabin."  
  
"I don't know," Ruby Bee said, sounding doubtful. "That  
place can't be nothin' but sticks and birds' nests now. No one in their  
right minds would even go near the place." Reconsidering both her  
words and the missing pair, she then said, "You could be right,  
though."  
  
"Who is Robin?" Fraser asked. "Another Buchanon."  
  
"Yes; Robin died some while ago," Ruby Bee answered.  
  
"Yet her memory and her cabin lives on," Arly added. "OK.  
Besides, Robin's cabin, there are a couple of other landmarks of note  
up on the ridge. One is Diesel Buchanon's cave."  
  
"You mean," Ray, looking disconcerted, said, "the guy  
who...the squirrels..." Unwilling to articulate the thought, he  
curled his fingers into claws and clamped them together like a bear trap,  
or teeth. Arly nodded. " _Yeesh_." Ray shook as if doused  
with cold water.  
  
"Another one," Arly continued her lecture on historic Maggody  
landmarks, "is Raz's magical, mobile still."  
  
"You're tellin' us that the guy's making illegal hooch up there,  
yet he comes to the cops wantin' help?" Ray said, astonished. "But  
how does the pig come into all this? And the missing couple?"  
  
"Citizens expect police to protect their property," Arly shrugged.  
"Raz takes Marjorie everywhere he goes, including wherever he's  
moved his ah...equipment. About all anyone knows for sure is it's up  
somewhere on the Ridge. And as for Kevin and Dahlia, well...," she  
sighed, then continued, "OK, Kevin's a few bubbles off plumb --"  
  
"A few bricks shy of a load," Ray interrupted. "One taco  
short of a combo platter. Not runnin' --"  
  
"Shut up, Ray!" Benny, Ruby Bee and Arly ordered. " _As_  
I was saying," Arly continued, shooting the grinning cop a dirty  
look, "Kevin's..." a quick look at Ray caused her to rapidly  
edit her statement. "Kevin's stupid, but not inconsiderate. I called  
Eileen this morning, and she's still not heard anything from him. No  
_way_ he'd not check in with momma and daddy, especially since he  
has their car. Kevin and Dahila are not in any of the hotels, motels,  
truckstops or anything else between here and Farberville; believe me,  
I checked." She smiled grimly. "Jim Bob and the City Council's  
gonna just _luv_ my phone bill."  
  
"Arly," Fraser said gently, "that doesn't mean they're  
safe. Or that they went to Farberville."  
  
Ruby Bee and Arly exchanged looks. "What y'all got to understand,"  
Ruby Bee took up the explanation, "is that there are just some things  
in life you can count on: the sun's gonna rise in the east and set in  
the west, Congress is always gonna raise taxes...and when Kevin and Dahlia  
leave town... well, except for when they went on their honeymoon --"  
  
"Where they were kidnapped by the Iranian terrorist," Ray murmured.  
Then, with a yelp, he grabbed his shin and glared irately at Arly.  
  
"Muscle spasm," Arly said, an innocent look on her face. Ray,  
for some reason not buying it, continued to glower and rub.  
  
Ruby Bee, irked at the interruption, shot the two offenders sulfurous  
looks, then continued. " _When_ Kevin and Dahlia leave town,  
there are only two places they ever go. One is Farberville; the other  
is," she sighed tiredly, "Robin's cabin."  
  
"A cave would make an excellent place to cache wrapped and crated  
weapons," Fraser noted.  
  
"And, if they're not too picky, I guess that cabin could be a good  
place to hole up," Ray added.  
  
"If you want to be precise," Arly added, "they wind up  
in the outhouse behind the cabin." She traded looks with her mother,  
then, as one, they said, "Don't ask."  
  
"Don't worry," Ray assured them. "I don't _even_ wanna  
know."  
  
"Trust me, you don't," Arly assured him. She sighed, then said,  
"Campers, it's time for Mutual of Maggody's _Wild Kingdom_ ,  
where an intrepid trio of law enforcement officers go in search of missing  
Buchanons, a stash of weapons, gunrunners, and God alone knows what else."  
Turning to look at her mother, she then asked, "You got the stuff  
ready, Ruby Bee?"  
  
"Seein' as those two have been gone a couple of days, I even put  
in a little bit extra," Ruby Bee told her, waving towards the bar.  
There they could see a largish cardboard box, a thermos, and a bag.  
  
"Sure that's enough?" Arly asked. Oddly enough, she did not  
sound sarcastic.  
  
"Well..." Ruby Bee looked doubtful. "You'll be gettin'  
'em back before supper, I hope. So, yeah, that should do." Turning  
towards the two men, she said, "Dahlia's expectin', you see."  
Ray and Benny gave her the oh-of-course-I-understand look men use when  
they're not really sure what's going on and really don't want to know,  
either. Ruby Bee got up, fed Diefenbaker another piece of ham, and yawned.  
"Now if y'all just go away, people who's got to work for a livin'  
might just get some rest before openin' time."  
  
"Don't buy that," Arly told Fraser, who looked as if he were  
about to apologize. "This just gives her more stuff to pack away  
for the next guilt trip she sends me on."  
  
Ruby Bee gave one of her disapproving sniffs at Arly's words, but the  
worry and concern in her eyes were easy to see. Ray knew from his own  
experiences that a cop's mother didn't have it easy. These two women  
might bicker, snarl, and trade insults, but it was plain to see that  
they loved each other. From the look in Benny's eyes, Ray could tell  
that the Mountie saw it, too.  
  
"Not to worry, Ruby Bee," Ray said lightly. "We've got  
Daniel Boone and his faithful wolf Babe with us."  
  
"Ray," Ruby Bee said, frowning slightly, "I think that's  
supposed to be Paul Bunyan and Babe, the blue ox."  
  
Ray grinned. "Bunyan, Boone, Babe...whatever."  
  
Arly glowered impatiently at her mother and Ray. " _If_ you  
two are finished discussing American genres, I'd like to go and get this  
over with. I got better things to do on a Saturday than look for Kevin  
and Dahlia."  
  
"Like what?" Ray asked, his arms crossed and one eyebrow elevated.  
  
"Like playing chess with Marjorie," Arly said steadily. "Or  
setting my hair on fire and putting it out with a hammer. Come _on_ ,  
let's _go_." She then went to the bar, picked up the box, and,  
pony tail swinging behind the silly hat, headed towards the door. Fraser,  
about to offer to carry it for her, settled instead for grabbing the  
bag and the thermos and getting the door.  
          
Ray grinned, brushed a surprised Ruby Bee's cheek with a kiss and murmured,  
"You are a wonderful lady," then scooted out the door after  
Arly. He could hear the wolf's claws clicking over the wooden floor and  
Fraser's "Thank you kindly," behind him. Soon cop, Mountie,  
and wolf joined Arly by the open trunk of the incredibly battered old  
police car. Looking at the carton of food that had been stowed in the  
trunk, a poker-faced Ray asked, "So, you're sure that's enough?"  
  
"All that," Arly said, "is for Dahlia, and, no, it's probably  
not enough. This," she indicated the bag that Fraser placed by the  
carton, "is for us." A whine from Diefenbaker caused her to  
look more closely at the wolf and say, " _All_ of us."  
Dief, front paws on the bumper, stared at the box with longing. "No  
sane being," Arly said, looking into the wolf's eyes, "would  
get between Dahlia and food during the normal course of event. And now  
that she's pregnant...well, unless you want to be reduced to little,  
fluffy wolf bits somewhere in the woods, I recommend that you don't try  
it or even think about it." Sulking, Dief stalked away to stand  
beside a car door.  
  
In moments, the three humans joined him, and the quartet was busy trying  
to make themselves as comfortable as they could on badly-sprung seats.  
With only a little reluctance, the engine sputtered to life.  
  
"Not many people talk to Diefenbaker like the intelligent being  
that he is," Fraser, seated in the back with the wolf, noted. "Thank  
you kindly for doing so."  
  
"Hey," Arly said, looking over her shoulder as she backed the  
sputtering cruiser onto the road, "I live in the same town as a  
pig who has her own satellite dish and who gives me clues in investigations.  
So what's talking to a wolf around here?"  
  
Conversation became fairly general as they drove past assorted trailer  
houses, pre-fabricated homes and chicken coops. Soon these structures  
became scarce, eventually disappearing altogether, leaving a landscape  
empty of anything except dirt roads that left the highway and wandered  
off to God-alone-knew-where and trees. Lots and lots of trees. As they  
headed up deeper into the hills Ray noticed clups of trucks, four-wheelers  
and people fathered at the edges of the roads and the forest. All of  
the people, including a fair number of children, were wearing the stupid  
orange vests and hats to which he had so eloquently objected and were  
holding serious looking rifles and shotguns.  
  
"Modern gun season," Arly, noting where Ray was staring, informed  
the cop.  
  
"'Modern gun,'" Ray repeated, eyes askance. "As opposed  
to what, cannon? Swords? That little girl back there couldn't been more  
than eight, nine years old."  
  
"'Modern gun' as opposed to bows and arrows," Fraser helpfully  
explained, "or muzzle loaded guns and black powder."  
  
Ray looked sourly at his unofficial partner. "Of course. This is  
just like your world, right? Just no ice or penguins or polar bears."  
  
"There are no penguins in the Arctic, Ray," Fraser patiently  
corrected his friend.  
  
"Do have black bears here, though," Arly added helpfully. " _And_  
Buchanons."  
  
Ray included her in the scowl he gave Fraser, then turned back to the  
window to frown at the landscape. He could be heard muttering under his  
breath something concerning Lieutenant Welsh and what bears and Buchanons  
could do. Glancing quickly at the rear-view mirror, Arly caught the Mountie's  
eyes and grinned. With a fond glance for his disgruntled partner Fraser  
looked at Arly's reflection and returned the smile. Then everyone, human  
and lupine, settled back to enjoy (or endure, in Ray's case) the ride.  
  
  
  
**About the same time, up at what's left of Robin's cabin...  
  
** "Bert?"  
  
"Yeah, Ernie?"  
  
"What'll we do?"  
  
Bert, exasperated because it was early in the morning, because he was  
stuck in the middle of nowhere with his yellow-eyed, idiot brother, and  
because he had the mother of all headaches, said, "We will go and  
get rid of the game warden's jeep, decide what to do with Romeo and Juliet  
in there, cover our tracks, and get the _hell_ out of here."  
  
"But what'll we do about the ... the... you-know-whats, Bert?"  
  
"Why be coy, Ernie? They," Bert jerked his thumb in the direction  
of the cabin, "know what the you-know-whats are, since you told  
them, _we_ know what the you-know-whats are, every damn squirrel  
and whatever damn else lives in this damn forest knows what the damn  
you-know-whats are. So just say this, Ernie." Bert, now even more  
annoyed than he usually was before he had his coffee, directed his brother,  
"Just say, 'What'll we do about the guns, Bert?'"  
  
Obediently, Ernie said, "What'll we do about the guns, Bert?"  
  
" _I DON"T KNOW!"  
_  
Ernie looked wounded. "But, Bert, you just told me to --"  
  
"Now I'm telling you to just shut up, Ernie. OK? Just shut the hell  
up. Can you understand me?" Bert asked. God, he had a headache.  
"Look," he said more calmly, "this hasn't exactly turned  
out the way we thought it would. That little problem up there in Chicago,  
for one thing, and the Chicago cop and the Mountie down here, for another.  
We got the guns up here, stashed 'em in that cave, all ready for the  
trip north... then the stupid truck breaks down, we can't use Mr. and  
Mrs. Redneck's car," he said, indicating the two in the cabin with  
a jerk of his head, "'cause sure as God made little green apples,  
some local yokel'll see it and call the cops. So all we're left with  
is the HumVee, Ernie." He looked, desperately, at his brother. "There  
is no way on earth we're gonna get all those crates to Farberville in  
a HumVee, much less to Chicago. Not without someone noticing, anyways.  
OK, maybe the old fart'll still let us use his cave, but, still... you  
know what it's like trying to deal with that ... that ... whatever the  
hell that guy is?"  
  
Ernie shuddered. "I can't believe what he did to that poor squirrel."  
  
"Just better hope," his brother said gloomily, "that he  
doesn't try to do it to us." The two brothers, united for a moment,  
exchanged sympathetic looks and as one chorused, " _Eeewww_."  
Bert shuddered. Then, getting a grip on his emotions, he said, "Gotta  
go tidy up down there. You just take care of those two in there, OK?  
You can do that, can't you, Ernie?" His last statement was enunciated  
so distinctly as to turn each word into a sentence: "Just. Take.  
Care. Of. Them."  
  
Ernie looked uncertainly at his brother. "That what you want, Bert?  
Me to take care of them?"  
  
"Yes, Ernie, that's exactly what I want."  
  
Ernie considered this blankly for a few moments, then, determinedly said,  
"OK, Bert." He then went back into the tumbled down shack.  
As Bert trotted over to his vehicle, he heard three voices raised, two  
of them terrified. Smiling with relief that, for once, Ernie seemed to  
have a handle on the situation, he started the HumVee and bounced off  
down the trail.  
  
If he'd have stopped and considered everything for a moment, he would  
have realized that both of the terrified voices were male.  
          
  
  
**A little bit later, about ten miles away from the cabin as a squirrel  
runs...  
  
** Vecchio and Fraser stood beside the cruiser, grimly surveying the  
scene before them: a hard top Jeep Cherokee, crashed into a tree beside  
the dirt road, an Arkansas Department of Wildlife and Fisheries oval  
decal on its door, a dead wildlife officer inside. Even standing ten  
or more feet away, they were fairly sure that the man was dead, since  
the front windshield of the jeep had been chewed up by gunfire, as had  
a great deal of its occupant's face.  
  
Arly, who had been attempting to raise someone, anyone, on her radio,  
abandoned the cruiser to join them. Her face pale, she said, "I  
hate, really _really_ hate, this part of the job." She stood  
there, rigid, fists clenched, staring at the dead man from under the  
bill of her orange cap.  
  
Ray, concerned about her (and not feeling that great himself), said soberly,  
"I don't think any cop ever does. And when they do, they need to  
get another line of work." Diefenbaker, sitting beside the Maggody  
police chief's feet, gave a sympathetic-sounding whine and pushed his  
muzzle against her fist. She absently relaxed her fingers and began to  
scratch the wolf behind his ears.  
  
"Hope you have a cell phone or some other fancy city cop stuff,"  
Arly told Ray. "The radio on my car is on strike again." As  
an answer, Ray reached into his jacket and, with a magician-like flourish,  
extracted his cell phone. Taking a look at the LCD, he began to hiss  
in Italian. While Arly didn't speak the language, she gathered that whatever  
the Chicago detective was saying wasn't exactly nice. When he paused  
for a second, she asked, "Out of range, right?" His glower,  
as he deactivated the unit and shoved it back into his pocket, was answer  
enough.  
  
"This is just wonderful," Ray said through gritted teeth. "We're  
out here with a dead game warden, the person or persons unknown who whacked  
him, two missing people, and a mutant who bites live squirrels."  
  
"Dead squirrels."  
  
Ray looked irritably at the Maggody police chief. "OK, _dead_ squirrels.  
What more could happen?" As if in answer, thunder rolled in the  
distance. Both cops looked up at the bit of overcast sky they could see  
through the overhanging pine branches. "Don't," Ray, his voice  
terribly calm, warned his Arkansas colleague, "even say it."  
  
Arly raised one eyebrow suggestively, but maintained her right to stay  
silent.  
  
Ray took a deep, calming breath, then turned his attention towards the  
Wildlife and Fisheries vehicle. "You feel ready to tackle that?"  
he asked.  
  
"No," Arly answered frankly, "not that it really matters;  
gotta job to do and all that. How about you?"  
  
"Not that it matters, but, no," Ray answered, equally frank.  
"So let's do this part of the gawdawful job while Benny communes  
with nature."  
  
Fraser started his investigation a little further up the trail. Ray and  
Arly watched him kneel, first by this thing, next by that, then take  
in the surrounding area. The wolf left Arly's side and went to join  
his human. "Don't be surprised," Ray warned her as they walked  
towards the jeep, "if he starts tasting stuff or eating the dirt."  
Seeing Arly's forehead wrinkle quizzically, he explained, "It's  
some Mountie thing or the other."  
  
Despite Ray's words, Fraser was not tasting anything. He had begun his  
investigation by sniffing the air and detecting something beside the  
typical forest smells. Then he walked beside some tire marks in the dust,  
observing them closely, then knelt beside some especially deep ruts cut  
into the ground. As the ground was iron hard, and the general dryness  
informed the Mountie that there had been no rain for quite some time,  
the marks had to be old. Diefenbaker was nearby, pattering through the  
thick pine straw by the side of the road. Looking in the wheel ruts,  
the Mountie noted a fine powdering of dust on top of a clump of green  
pine needles. He reached for the clump, picked it up, and after wiping  
it free of dust, sniffed. Fraser frowned, studying the pine needles carefully.  
Satisfied with his conclusions, he rose, stretching his neck with an  
audible _click.  
  
_ Diefenbaker, paper sack in mouth, trotted towards the Mountie. The  
wolf, looking terribly pleased with himself, stopped and sat in front  
of his human. Fraser held out his hand for the bag, but Diefenbaker,  
not willing to share his prize, bounced up and loped up the trail, leaving  
an annoyed Mountie staring irritably after him.  
  
Arly and Ray had found the dead man's vehicle still warm to the touch.  
Arly observed, "Morning's too chilly for a car to stay warm long."  
  
Ray opened the driver's side door and checked the dead man's skin temperature.  
"He's still warm, too." They looked at each other, knowing  
that this could only mean two things: this hadn't happened very long  
ago, and whoever had done this was still somewhere close by. Since there  
had been not so much as a trail leaving the road they'd driven, and since  
they'd not met any vehicles heading back towards town, that could mean  
a third thing: the person or persons unknown had to have gone back up  
the ridge.  
  
"Let's see if _his_ radio still works," Arly said as she  
went to the other side of the jeep. Opening the door, she reached inside,  
carefully not looking at the dead man. Punching in a frequency, she sat  
on the passenger side and growled into the mike, "LaBelle, it's  
Arly; I know Harve is there, dammit, so put 'im on." The dispatcher  
on the other end squawked a bit but complied.  
  
"And a good mornin' to you too, Arly," a deep voice boomed  
from the radio. "Business or pleasure?"  
  
"Business. Drag dear ol' Doc McBeen out of the morgue and whatever  
cop you can haul out of the deer stands and get up to Cotter's Ridge,  
near Robin Buchanon's old place."  
  
"McBeen's up there already; he's had a call or two this mornin'.  
I didn't know dead bodies ever appeared anywhere else in Maggody except  
number 5 of the Flamingo, Arly. Who's the stiff this time?"  
  
"Hold on a sec ..." Ray handed her the dead man's wallet, which  
he had extracted. "Willard Jenkins, Wildlife and Fisheries. Although,"  
Arly said bleakly, "We can't make a positive visual ID because he  
doesn't exactly look like his photo anymore."  
  
"Up near Robin's old cabin, you say. OK, I'll contact the State  
Police then the area Wildlife bunch over in West Fork, see who I can  
get hold of and be there quick as I can. Dorfer out." Sighing, Arly  
reached into the vehicle to return the handset to its base, carefully  
extracting herself so as to not jar the late Willard Jenkins. She then  
went and leaned against the hood, crossing her arms across her chest  
and letting her head drop backwards until she was looking up at the graying  
sky.  
  
Ray went over to join her. "Ah... unit 5?"  
  
Rolling her head just enough to see him out of the corner of her eyes,  
she answered, "It's a real long story; I could write a whole series  
of books on it, only nobody'd ever believe it." She then returned  
to cloud watching. Over in the woods, a squirrel and a blue jay engaged  
in a shouting match. Diefenbaker could be heard just a little way off,  
woofing about something. They heard Fraser yelling his deaf wolf's name,  
soon followed by an irate lecture about evidence.  
  
"This is conduct unbecoming a wolf that is working with a member  
of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Fraser scolded.  
  
The conduct-disordered Diefenbaker stopped where he was, sat down, and  
looked intently at the Mountie, his prize between his front paws. The  
wolf give a grunting whine.  
  
  
"Yes, I know this is not in our jurisdiction, Diefenbaker."  
  
_Whine_.  
  
"That is beside the point, and you know it."  
  
"This is gonna sound stupid, especially since I've been talking  
to him, too," Arly leaned over to whisper to Ray, "but I thought  
that wolf was supposed to be deaf. So exactly how are we able to play  
Dr. Doolittle?"  
  
Leaning towards her to whisper back, Ray answered, "Benny says Diefenbaker  
reads lips."  
  
Arly looked through narrowed eyes at the detective. "Are you telling  
me," she said, still whispering, "that your friend over there  
actually sat down and taught a wolf how to lip read?"  
  
Ray shook his head, green eyes crinkled with laughter. "Benny insists  
that Dief taught himself." He paused. "Oh, yeah, Dief can lip  
read Inuit, too."  
  
"You are making that up," Arly accused him.  
  
"No," Ray corrected her. "Benny did."  
  
"Did what, Ray?" came the Mountie's voice.  
  
"You got the evidence away from Diefenbaker," Ray segued smoothly,  
nodding at the bag in his approaching friend's hand.  
  
"Well done," Arly complemented Ray.  
  
"Well," Benny said, thinking the police chief was acknowledging  
him, looked a bit embarrassed, "it did take more time that it should  
have. I had to reprimand him sternly and remind him of his duties as  
a representative of our government."  
  
"What did the Canadian ambassador find?" Ray asked.  
  
Fraser opened the bag and looked. "Seven empty soda cans, an empty  
Fig Newton package, and four empty sandwich containers." Sticking  
his nose into the bag, he said, "Wait... there's part of a Fig Newton  
left." Lowering the sack, Fraser extracted the Newton fragment and  
raised it towards his face.  
  
" _Eeeewww_ ," Ray gagged, looking as if he were about to  
be extremely ill. "Geeez, Benny! Don't taste it!" Arly looked  
at the Mountie, not sure whether to admire or be repelled by such dedication.  
  
"Now, Ray," Benny said, the cookie half way to his face, "I  
don't feel it's necessary to make an oral identification of this. After  
all, it _is_ fairly obvious that this is a Fig Newton. What must  
be determined is how long this particular Fig Newton has been here."  
  
"What," Ray asked irritably, "we gotta go through the  
woods asking litter bugs exactly when they dumped their trash?"  
  
"Are those empty soda cans by any chance empty orange NeHi cans?"  
Arly asked.  
  
Ray eyed her with irritation. "Why? You thirsty?"  
  
"I was raised behind a bar, not a garbage dump," Arly reminded  
him. "But even untasted, if those were cans of orange NeHi, then  
they had to be Dahlia's."  
  
"Dahlia Buchanon being the only person in these parts who happens  
to drink orange Nehi?" Ray asked skeptically.  
  
"Dahlia Buchanon being the only person in these parts," Arly  
informed him with some asperity, "who downs 'em six at a shot, along  
with three sandwiches and a package of Fig Newtons."  
  
"But there are four sandwich containers and seven cans," Fraser  
pointed out.  
  
Arly shrugged her shoulders. "Kevin has to eat occasionally."  
She gestured towards the forbidden fig cookie. "So, how long you  
think that thing been here?"  
  
Fraser raised the cookie remnant back to eye level and studied it closely.  
Then, giving it another sniff, he informed them, "This cannot have  
been here any earlier than yesterday afternoon or any later than this  
morning; the outer cake layer is still fairly moist, as is the filling."  
  
"You should write ads," Ray observed drily.  
          
"Also," Fraser continued, ignoring Ray, "I was able to  
detect the residue of diesel fuel in the air and I found this."  
He held the pine needles up for their inspection.  
  
"Great, Benny," Ray enthused sarcastically. "You found  
some pine needles in the middle of a pine forest."  
  
"They're broken," Arly observed, squinting at the greenery  
in the Mountie's hand.  
  
"OK, he found _broken_ pine needles."  
  
"Run over," Fraser corrected. "I found them in a tire  
track over there." He used the needles to point in the direction  
he meant, some yards in front of the jeep. "The resin is still sharp.  
And sticky," he finished, rolling the needles between his fingers,  
then displaying the result: a finger with pine needles stuck to it. "As  
green pine needles are fairly pliant, and judging from the odors and  
tire marks I observed up ahead, I think that these were crushed by a  
particularly heavy, diesel fuel burning, eight -wheeled vehicle sometime  
this morning."  
  
"Fairly fresh, then," Arly concluded. "This morning, you  
say?" Fraser nodded in confirmation.  
  
"I'm in the woods with a dead guy and Ranger Rick and his forest  
friends," Ray groaned, dropping his head in disgust.  
  
Diefenbaker, his nose lifted, growled.  
  
"In fact, I think a vehicle similar to the one I just described  
in heading this way now," Fraser said, listening. "As we do  
not know the identity or purpose of the driver, I feel safe in concluding  
that their friendliness is open to question, so I suggest that we utilize  
Arly's police car as a barricade, until we are sure exactly who is driving  
down that trail."  
  
Arly tossed her keys to Ray. "Move my hunk of junk; I gotta go get  
something." Ray caught the keys and went to do so. Fraser, watching  
the police chief curiously, saw her take a deep breath, wrench open the  
jeep's door, and duck inside. She quickly exited with the dead game warden's  
weapon and extra ammunition clip in her hands. She then hurried over  
behind her car, which was now satisfactorily blocking the road. She saw  
the two men's puzzled looks, and confessed, "I'm not exactly overly-blessed  
with ammo." She could see the Canadian's disapproval, but decided  
to ignore it. "How's about you two?" Arly knelt beside the  
rear fender, her own revolver ready.  
  
"Service weapon and backup," Ray told her as he joined her.  
His friend remained quiet, standing upright, gazing up the trail for  
whatever was coming.  
  
"Ah, Constable?" Arly asked.  
  
"Go ahead," Ray goaded his friend. "Say it."  
  
"I, also, have a service weapon," Fraser said, "a standard  
issue .38 caliber Smith and Wesson. But as I am not licensed to legally  
carry a firearm in the United States, it is unloaded." Arly held  
the game warden's handgun up for the Mountie. "I am sorry, Chief  
Hanks," he said formally, "but I simply cannot take it."  
  
Arly looked exasperated. "We may or may not be about to face whoever  
did _that_ ," she said, waving toward the Wildlife and Fisheries  
vehicle with the agent's gun, causing both Ray and Benny to flinch, "who's  
probably toting an Uzi or AK47 or some other weapon of mass destruction,  
and you aren't gonna take this," she flourished the weapon again,  
"because _you_ _don't have a license_ _in this country_?"  
  
"Welcome to my world," a smug Ray grinned. Arly drew a deep  
breath and rested her head against the car's fender. Ray then continued,  
"Just hope he doesn't decide to arrest you for disturbing a crime  
scene by taking the dead guy's gun." She lifted her head and looked  
at the Chicago cop like he was crazy, then looked at the Mountie's face  
and decided to give the detective the benefit of the doubt. Shaking  
her head slightly, she stuck the appropriated weapon in the back of her  
waistband, pocketed the extra clip, and trained her own pistol back toward  
the trail. Ray could hear her muttering under her breath something about  
whoever was coming for them probably didn't have a license and probably  
didn't worry a whole damn lot about it, either. A quick glance at Fraser  
let Ray know that the Canadian had also heard, but was determinedly overlooking  
Arly's comments. Soon, though, his attention was claimed by a full-throttle  
roar from the trail up ahead. "My God! _What_ in _hell_ are  
they drivin'? A tank?"  
          
"A High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle," Fraser, not  
God, answered. "Or, as many people call them, a HumVee." Fraser,  
of course, was correct, and they could now see it as well as hear it.  
  
"No way this poor old clunker's gonna hold _that_ off,"  
Arly observed, patting the old police cruiser.  
  
"Very likely not," Fraser told her.  
  
"Got a plan?" Ray asked.  
  
"Yes," the Mountie told him. "Run!"  
  
  
**  
Next, a strategic retreat...  
  
** Following his own advice, Fraser grabbed Ray and Arly each by an  
arm and ran for cover behind a tangle of thorny vines and fallen trees,  
Diefenbaker outracing the three humans and diving in first. They were  
just in time, for Arly's car didn't slow the HumVee down one bit. The  
assailant leaned through his lowered window, blazing away at them with  
an Uzi and screaming. Both Ray and Arly returned fire with their own  
handguns, with Arly forced to resort to her borrowed weapon after only  
three shots.  
  
"Three bullets?!" Ray yelled. "What cop goes around with  
only _three bullets_ in a gun?" He continued to fire, but was  
soon forced to stop and reload.  
  
"The one who has to argue with the Maggody City Council about insurance  
and liability!" Arly yelled back, keeping up the fusillade towards  
the HumVee and its occupant.  
  
The HumVee's driver, none other than Bert, had panicked when he first  
saw the cop car across the road. But then, as Fraser and Arly had earlier  
realized, he really didn't have much to worry about; one of the original  
functions of the High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle was to either  
circumvent obstacles or to render them useless. Howling "Hasta  
la vista, baby!" and feeling like Rambo, Bert held his Uzi out the  
open driver's window, opened fire and slammed into the obstructing cop  
car. He pulled sharply on the wheel, intending to swing around and smush  
cops, trees and all. Unfortunately, he forgot one little part of the  
incredibly expensive "You and Your HumVee: Wheee!" class that  
he had attended: High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles tend to  
be top-heavy, and don't corner easily. Bert's vehicle toppled over with  
less grace than a two-legged cow onto the red dirt road, shooting red  
dust and pine needles up like fireworks.  
  
The three bedraggled humans and their lupine companion extracted themselves  
from the briars and vines with bits of native flora stuck to them. Except  
for assorted scratches and the beginning of a few bruises, they were  
uninjured. They cautiously approached the vehicle, Ray and Arly holding  
fire, but with weapons ready. Ray and Fraser clambered onto the vehicle  
and Arly remained on the ground, ready to fire at whatever poked its  
head out anywhere. Their precautions, while wise, proved unnecessary,  
for their assailant's gun arm was pinned by several tons of HumVee. Its  
occupant could be heard cussing up a blue streak.  
  
"Bert? Bert Bolt?" Arly asked, leaning over to look through  
the windshield. The answer she received was an obscene affirmative.  
  
" _Bolt_?!" Ray, halting so quickly that the Mountie ran  
into him and almost sent them both off the vehicle, spat the name like  
a curse.  
  
"Oh, dear," said Fraser, working to maintain both his and Ray's  
balance.  
  
"He's some cousin or the other to the Buchanons," Arly explained.  
"You can tell by the yellow in their eyes, you see."  
  
"Figures," Ray commented sourly, and sat down on the overturned  
vehicle, scowling.  
  
"Ah, reinforcements," Fraser said, looking down the road as  
he jumped from the HumVee. Ray followed suit, perhaps a little less agilely,  
then turned to where his friend was looking. A sheriff's car, a state  
police car, a state police investigative team car, an ambulance, and  
a very old pickup were heading up towards them, raising another stupendous  
cloud of red dust in the chilly morning air. Soon everything, dust cloud  
included, swirled around the battered police car and the HumVee, causing  
those in the immediate vicinity to choke.  
  
A pot-bellied man in a sheriff's uniform, an incredibly foul-looking  
cigar between his fingers, was the first to reach them, a state trooper  
looking like he stepped from a recruitment poster just steps behind.  
"Looks like y'all got everything under control here," he said,  
pointing at the overturned HumVee with his cigar. For some reason, Ray  
felt the man was not exactly being complementary. "Any ideas on  
getting the poor sumbitch out?"  
  
"We'll use your cigar as a lever and Sergeant Trooper there as a  
fulcrum," Arly told him. "That, or shove Diesel Buchanon's  
collection of squirrel skulls under one at a time until it tumps back  
over."  
  
"I think I like that second option better," said the state  
trooper who, carefully adjusting his Stetson, joined them. "'Course,  
that's just my opinion." Then, eyeing the police chief, he told  
her, "You know, Chief Hanks, orange does not suit you." Arly  
replied with one of her snakier unblinking looks. Since the trooper was  
several inches taller than Ray and several pounds of muscle heavier than  
Fraser, she had quite a bit to look up and over. She did not seem overly  
impressed.  
  
Everyone's attention was soon claimed by the activity swarming around  
the Wildlife and Fisheries jeep. The state police team was busily photographing,  
printing, and measuring everything, while an elderly, dyspeptic man hopped  
out of the jeep and walked over to join the group by the HumVee.  
  
"Gentlemen... and trooper," Arly said, "Detective Ray  
Vecchio of the Chicago P.D. and Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian  
Mounted Police. This is Sheriff Harve Dorfer and that is Sergeant Plover,  
the Mr. Blackwell of the Arkansas State Police. This is Dr. McBeen, the  
county coroner." The usual pleasantries were exchanged, although  
Ray felt that the handshake offered by the trooper was a bit more bone-crushing  
than called for.  
  
"Any ideas yet?" the sheriff asked the coroner.  
  
"Yeah. One's dead and one ain't," the coroner said acidly.  
"You want anything more definite, let me get the dead one back to  
the morgue."  
  
"McBeen," Arly said wearily. She'd dealt with the coroner before.  
"Just humor us, please?"  
  
"What the hell for?" McBeen snarled. "Already this morning,  
I've seen a fella who managed to break his neck on a three-wheeler, an  
S.O.B. that some other dumb S.O.B. mistook for a twelve-point buck, and  
some _really_ dumb S.O.B. what shot himself in the back of the head  
climbing up to his tree stand while carrying a loaded shotgun with the  
safety off. _Then_ I'll have see a whole waiting room of dumb S.O.B.s  
who managed to mangle themselves or their hunting' buddies on this glorious  
November day." Fuming a bit, he then said, "Oh, all right.  
One hour, plus or minus thirty minutes," he said, indicating the  
late wildlife officer. "Now," McBeen, his attention on the  
crowd of cops by the Wildlife and Fisheries jeep, "if you people'll  
get that dumb S.O.B. out of the truck so's I can look at him, then get  
the poor S.O.B. game warden loaded in the ambulance, I might get to do  
some work and tell you a bit more. That is, _if_ you don't mind."  
He turned to go and berate the investigative team, but paused, however,  
when he saw Diefenbaker. "Nice lookin' wolf," the coroner said,  
a grimace-like smile briefly flashing over his face as he returned to  
the jeep. They could see the state police crew cringe as one at his approach.  
  
"Doctor Kevorkian there still sees _living_ people?" an  
incredulous Ray asked.  
  
"Don't be fooled by that ol' country doctor charm," Arly commented.  
"What he lacks in bedside manner he more than makes up for with  
sheer ill-will. And expertise."  
  
"How are we gonna get the poor S.O.B. out of the truck?" Plover  
asked, straightfaced. "I mean, since we don't have the squirrel  
skulls."  
  
"Sheriff Dorfer," Fraser said, "I see that your car has  
a winch on the front. I think that, if we pass the hook and chain behind  
on the trees on the passenger side of the HumVee and attach it to the  
vehicle, we should be able to return the vehicle to its normal position."  
Following the Mountie's directions, they were able to do just that, although  
the HumVee's driver seemed unappreciative of their efforts. He was also  
less than thrilled with ol' Doc McBeen, who returned to patch him up.  
  
Sheriff Dorfer looked at the driver. "Bert Bolt?" he asked.  
"That you?" Bert, understandably unhappy, snarled affirmatively.  
"Where's Ernie?" the sheriff asked.  
  
"Bert... and Ernie?" Sergeant Plover asked, his expression  
skeptical.  
  
"Of course," Ray nodded. "Had to be."  
  
"It is highly possible," Fraser said, his head cocked, listening,  
"that we'll soon make that person's acquaintance shortly."  
  
An elderly, four-door sedan crawled from behind the tree-screened curve  
at the Moutie's words. "You'll get to meet your international gunrunners,  
too," Arly said, recognizing the vehicle.  
  
Plover looked at the approaching car, close enough now that he could  
identify two of the occupants. "Kevin and Dahlia?"  
  
" _Kevin and Dahlia Buchanon?_ " Dorfer asked incredulously,  
cigar dangling from his bottom lip.  
  
"The scourge of law enforcement officers everywhere," Arly  
said dryly.  
  
Both Plover and Harve Dorfer turned to look at the Chicago detective  
and the Mountie. _"Those_ are your gun dealers?" the sheriff  
asked them, nearly dropping the cigar from his mouth. Then, to Arly,  
"Why the hell didn't you tell me _that_ was why you were so  
anxious to find 'em?"  
  
Arly looked at him steadily. "And your reaction would have been?"  
The sheriff opened his mouth to answer, closed it, considered her question  
again, then nodded sheepishly and made a you-got-me-there gesture with  
his hands. "OK, then. Who's that with Bonnie and Clyde?" Harve  
squinted towards the approaching vehicle.  
  
Bert Bolt, his arm temporarily splinted and in a sling and having been  
given a stiff shot of painkiller by McBeen, saw the oncoming car and  
its occupants and let out a fierce howl. "Ernie! You _idiot_!"  
Staggering first towards the woods and then towards the approaching car,  
he yelled, "I thought I told you to take care of those two!"  
He then collapsed into a well-dressed heap onto the middle of the dirt  
road.  
  
Earl Buchanon's car came to a screeching halt just inches from Bert.  
Ernie Bolt popped his head through the open driver's side window and,  
guilessly, assured his brother, "I am, Bert. I'm gonna take them  
down to the town for breakfast. Dahlia's expectin', you know." Bert  
pulled himself up, using the bumper for support, then unsteadily launched  
himself at his brother's head with intention of inflicting severe bodily  
harm. He missed by several feet, since the medication interfered with  
his navigational abilities something awful, and landed, spread eagle,  
face down, back on the road, sending aloft a baby dust cloud. Ernie,  
understandably confused, looked down at his brother's prone body and  
asked, "Ah, Bert?"  
  
"Yeah, Ernie?" came the dust-muffled reply.  
  
"Are you all right?" In lieu of a verbal reply, Bert rolled  
his head so as to see his brother's concerned, yellow-specked eyes, spat  
out a considerable quantity of dust, and glared for a moment, before  
dropping his head, face down, back into the dirt.  
  
"Who gets 'em?" Plover asked.  
  
"I don't have the facilities," Arly informed him. "And  
I don't want 'em. _Any_ of 'em. Harve?"  
  
The sheriff sighed, looking from the collapsed heap on the road to the  
confused man still hanging half way out the car's window. "Cuff  
'em and load 'em up in mine, then," Harve Dorfer instructed. Turning  
to Vecchio and Fraser, he continued, "I guess y'all have to come  
over to Farberville to interview 'em."  
  
"All of them?" Plover asked, his face carefully innocent of  
all expression. "Even the international gun-runnin' terrorists?"  
  
Waving his frayed cigar with all the verve of the late Leonard Bernstein,  
Harve looked casually up towards the clouds and said, "Nah. Arly'd  
really have a fit if we took 'em off her hands." The sheriff turned  
to head for his car, jauntily whistling the Sesame Street theme song  
as he walked.  
  
"Hey, Arly," Kevin Buchanon, hanging out the front passenger  
window, hailed the police chief. Wordlessly, Arly turned to face him.  
"I don't really think Dahlia's up to no runnin' or anything, even  
though her doctor over in Faberville said she needs to get more exercise  
and stuff." Yellow flecked eyes blinked fecklessly.  
  
"I thought we was gonna go get some breakfast," the love of  
his life, Dahlia (nee O'Neill) Buchanon, all three hundred plus pounds  
and six plus feet of her, said from the back seat. It came across more  
as a threat than an reminder. Sergent Plover backed away a bit from the  
car. The two visiting police officers, remembering Arly's earlier warning  
to Diefenbaker, decided that they didn't want to get in the way, either.  
  
"I think," Arly said patiently, "that you two ought to  
go on back home, let Earl and Eileen know you're...all right..."  
(she looked a little doubtful here, as did everyone else) "... that  
you're safe," she corrected. "Later on, these two men over  
here, Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser, will probably want to talk  
to you. But not now." The police chief said the last three words  
with emphasis. Ray and Fraser looked at each other, not sure if they  
were aimed at the Buchanons or at them.  
  
"That will be fine," Fraser assured them.  
  
"OK by me," Ray confirmed.  
  
Sergeant Plover, adjusting his hat firmly, walked over and hauled the  
recumbent Bert off the ground and handcuffed him, splinted arm not withstanding.  
Motioning Ernie out of the car, he borrowed Arly's handcuffs ("That's  
my only pair, Plover. I want 'em back, and not next year, either.")  
and cuffed him before marching both over to Harve Dorfer's car. When  
both prisoners were safely stowed away, Harve, with a cheerful flourish  
of his cigar, executed a neatly done 180 degree turn, and peeled off.  
The last sight anyone saw before the car disappeared into a red dust  
cloud was of Bert Bolt banging his head repeatedly against the metal  
screen that separated the sheriff and his prisoners.  
  
  
  
**Late that evening, back in sweet home Maggody...  
**  
Arly's elderly police car had proven tougher than anyone would have credited;  
though neither the front or the back passenger side doors would close  
completely and the right rear fender sounded like a troop of hyperactive  
rattlesnakes, the car was able to limp back to town. The weather cooperated,  
too, waiting until everyone was safe in the confines of the Maggody city  
limits before letting loose with a short but enthusiastic monsoon, turning  
the thick red dust into slick red goo in no time.  
  
The cops and the Buchanons had driven to Flamingo Bar and Grill upon  
first entering town, where they were fed, fussed over (and fussed at  
by Ruby Bee) and reassured. Kevin and Dahlia eventually left for Kevin's  
parents' house, where Eileen and Earl (one anxious, one annoyed) waited.  
Ray and Fraser, reluctangly tearing themselves away from Ruby Bee's version  
of lunch (smothered pork chops, green bean casserole, corn on the cob,  
cornbread and a choice of two different pies), retrieved their rental  
car and went to conduct their interviews. Diefenbaker declined to accompany  
them, deciding instead to stay with his new goddess, Ruby Bee.  
  
Fraser and Vecchio found themselves in for a long afternoon. Their first  
stop was the county jail in Farberville and the Bolt brothers. A TV news  
crew, having followed everything over a scanner, had camped out in front  
of Sheriff Dorfer's office. Upon learning that two out of town law enforcement  
officers, one of them a Mountie, were expected to interview the prisoners,  
the ladies and gentlemen of the electronic press happily continued their  
version of a stake out. When Fraser and Ray appeared, Dorfer happily  
directed the television talent to the out of town cops and then ran like  
a pot-bellied squirrel. It took some doing, but eventually the two visiting  
cops were able to extricate themselves and conduct their interviews in  
peace.  
  
Back in Maggody, the two big city professionals spent more than three  
hours with the Buchanons. It only took about twenty or so minutes to  
gain the salient facts concerning Kevin's and Dahlia's role in the weapons  
operation. The rest of the time was occupied by learning more than they  
needed (or wanted) about Kevin, Dahlia, Earl and Eileen, names for Baby  
Buchanon, kinship with the Bolt brothers, kinship with various other  
Buchanons, stories about Marjorie and Raz... Ray eventually rescued them  
both by randomly quoting several unimportant but official sounding bits  
from the Illinois Criminal Code, Fraser helpfully clouding the waters  
further by adding the official R.C.M.P. specifications for purchase of  
lanyards. They slipped only a little in the red mud running for their  
rental car.  
  
It was nine o'clock that evening before the two men returned to the quiet  
Maggody P.D. They found Arly there, a smugly amused look on her face  
as she watched them collapse onto chairs. She was seated, chair back  
against the wall, her feet propped on her desk, twirling her set of handcuffs  
around one finger. Beside her feet was a pile of neatly typed reports,  
all featuring the name "Bolt" prominently. Diefenbaker, curled  
up in a corner, acknowledged their return by opening one eye before returning  
back to sleep.  
  
Arly, looking up at the stained ceiling, informed them, "You missed  
Raz and Marjorie. Some people are just _so_ unlucky. Marjorie informed  
me through Raz to give you both her love. Y'all give my love to the Bolts?"  
She stopped playing with the cuffs and, removing her feet from the desk,  
sat her chair on the floor with a thump.  
  
"Yeah," Ray told her. "They expressed their appreciation  
of your fair town in no uncertain terms, colorfully and in detail. There  
was a camera crew from some TV station at the jail, to whom those same  
sentiments were expressed, we were told, but after editing out all the  
colorful details, there won't be much footage."  
  
"Saw it," Arly said. "Didn't see much of the Bolts, but  
you two were certainly colorful enough. I'd take my hat off to you, if  
I hadn't gotten rid of it a long time ago."  
  
Fraser, rubbing an eyebrow with his thumb, said, contritely, "Oh,  
dear." He had abandoned the orange cap and resumed his Stetson before  
leaving on the interviews.  
  
"Oh, dear Lord," Ray groaned as realization set in. "I  
totally forgot about this stupid stuff." He stripped the orange  
hunter's vest and cap off as if they were contaminated dead rats, dropping  
them on the floor with audible disgust. Dief stretched, nose to tail,  
walked over and curled upon them, resuming his nap. The detective rubbed  
his scalp and said, relieved, "At least no one at home'll see it."  
  
Arly looked at him in wonder. "Do you mean to tell me that a big  
ol' city like Chicago doesn't have a TV station that can get satellite  
feed from a network affiliate?" Her conscience started twittering  
at her for experiencing such glee at the horrified expression on the  
detective's face but was successfully quashed. Turning her attention  
to more serious matters, Arly asked, "Exactly how did Kevin and  
Dahlia get to be mixed up in this? I mean, besides being unlucky enough  
to be themselves for one thing, and related to the Bolts for another?"  
  
"Apparently," Fraser told her over his friend's muttered groans  
and curses, "it seems that Kevin was actually placing the labels  
on the crates then sending them to Chicago via the Farberville post office.  
Ernie Bolt informed us that Bert paid Kevin five dollars for each crate  
posted. Evidently Kevin truly believed that they were... just crates  
of artworks." The Mountie's voice indicated that he had some trouble  
with that last bit.  
  
"I am amazed," Arly said dryly.  
  
"I'm shocked," commented Ray, who'd left off his whining for  
the moment.  
          
"You're shocked that I'm amazed?" Arly asked.  
  
"I'm shocked that _he,_ " Ray said, jerking his head in  
the Mountie's direction, "a man who'd loan a total stranger that  
he'd met in an airport a hundred bucks, wouldn't believe that someone  
would fall for such a scam."  
  
"Now, Ray," Fraser reproved his friend, "the fact that  
I find, given a chance, people tend to be honest more often than not  
does not preclude me from harboring some suspicions about people. After  
all, Lord knows, I _am_ a police officer."  
  
"That's not the point, Benny," Ray argued.  
  
Fraser looked puzzled. "Then what is the point?"  
  
"I don't _know_ what the point is," Ray said peevishly.  
"What's the point of any of this?" he said, hands in the air.  
Then, to Arly, "What's the point of your bein' amazed? After all,  
you live here."  
  
"I'm amazed," she replied, "for two reasons. One, that  
Kevin had enough sense to do something so... complicated. Two, that there  
was someone on earth who _knew_ Kevin but was dumb enough to expect  
that Kevin would have sense enough to do something so complicated. And  
Bert and Ernie knew him; they've known him for years. The Bolts used  
to come around a lot when they were kids and visit; that is, until they  
burned down a barn once and their mom decided it wasn't such a good idea  
to bring them back."  
  
"Nothin' like good old fashioned family values," Ray said,  
shaking his head. Then, casually, "You wanna get a beer or something  
when you're off-duty?" He stretched his shoulders then began rubbing  
at his wrists.  
  
"Sure," Arly said, unpinning the badge from her shirt. "I  
am now officially off-duty." Observing Ray, whose actions had turned  
to full-scale scratching, she asked, "You OK?"  
  
"Think I caught some weird tree fungus or somethin'," Ray groused,  
now rubbing at his waistline. "Let me catch a quick shower and there's  
nothing a brew or two won't put right."  
  
"You cannot catch a tree fungus, Ray," Ben said patiently.  
  
"I been in the woods, there are trees there, and I itch," his  
friend returned. "Tree fungus."  
  
"I am afraid the constable is right," Arly said, leaning forward  
and propping on her elbows. "'Course, there are a lot of pine trees  
here, and where you have pine trees you have pine needles."  
  
"I thought we'd already established that," Ray said irritably,  
still rubbing.  
  
"Where you have lots of pine needles,"Arly continued as if  
not hearing Ray's statement, "you usually have lots of ticks _.  
And_ redbugs; those nasty little critters love tight, constricted  
areas... like around waistbands and cuffs." One hand came down to  
drum lightly on the desk, the other, splayed, still supported Arly's  
chin. She didn't bat an eye as Ray ran yelling from the police station.  
  
For a few minutes, the only sound was the reverbration of the slammed  
door.  
  
Arly left her chair and went to the exit. Before she left she turned  
and, her expression unreadable, said, "Hope there'll be enough hot  
water left for you." Shutting the door carefully behind her, she  
left.  
  
Fraser frowned, then, enlightenment hitting, looked at Diefenbaker. "Oh,  
dear." Then he absently-mindedly scratched at his waist, and winced.  
  
  
  
**Next day, in the friendly skies...  
  
** "Look, I said I'm sorry."  
  
"It's quite all right, Ray."  
  
"I mean, you had a key. You could have just checked, ya know."  
  
"But, Ray.."  
  
"Don't give me that."  
  
"Give you what, Ray?"  
  
"You know perfectly well what. That look. That damn big-eyed Mountie  
look."  
  
"I don't mean to."  
  
"Yeah, right." Ray frowned and looked at his friend through  
narrowed eyes. "Why am I apologizing, anyways? _I_ didn't tell  
you to stay outside for three hours, scratching at the door."  
  
"That," Benny told him, "was Diefenbaker. I was too busy  
scratching myself."  
  
"Well," Ray said reasonably, "why didn't you use your  
elbow or something to knock on the door? Or just use the damn key?"  
  
"Ray," Benny said, blushing.  
  
"Benny, Benny, Benny," Ray tsked mournfully,  
  
"Well, Ray," Benny said, "when she left and said... I  
mean, the way she said...after all, _anyone_ would have..."  
his voice trailed off.  
  
"Benny, Benny, Benny."  
  
"Ray?"  
  
"What, Benny?"  
  
"Are you making fun of me?"  
  
"Not at all, Benny."  
  
"I mean, Ray, you could be being extremely sarcastic now."  
  
"Would I do that to you, Benny?"  
  
"Yes, Ray, you would."  
  
"Then why are you asking?"  
  
"Never mind, Ray."  
  
"Well, OK, then."  
  
"OK."  
          
  
  
**The _next_ day, back at the 27th...  
  
** Lieutenant Welsh looked carefully at the two men standing in front  
of his desk. "Are you quite sure you've left nothing out?"  
  
"It's all there in the report, sir," Ray assured him.  
  
"Constable?" Welsh asked the Mountie.  
  
"I can think of nothing of substance to add to Detective Vecchio's  
account, Leftenant," Fraser said. "Of course, I can furnish  
you with a copy of the report which I have given Inspector Thatcher."  
  
Welsh again surveyed the two. "So, leave, already. Let me read this,"  
he said, waving the rather bulky file, "in peace."  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
"Yes, Leftenant."  
  
The two made their exits without undue haste, but certainly did not linger,  
either. Ray saw Elaine approaching the lieutenant's office, a fax in  
hand. Turning to his friend, he asked, "Lunch, Benny?"  
  
"A good idea, Ray." Fraser had also observed the Civilian Aid's  
approach and what she carried. "I think now would be a good time."  
  
"I agree, Benny. Yo, Elaine!"  
  
"What, Vecchio? Oh, hi, Fraser."  
  
"Good afternoon, Elaine."  
  
"Look, Elaine, if the Lieutenant should look for us -- not that  
he has any reason to, mind -- but if he should, Benny and I've gone on  
to lunch. OK?"  
  
"Sure, Ray. 'Bye, Fraser."  
  
"Later, Elaine."  
  
"Thank you kindly, Elaine."  
  
Elaine watched as the two made their way out the squadroom. She looked  
at the paper in her hand, raised one eyebrow, gave the two men another  
few seconds head start, then knocked upon Lieutenant Welsh's office door.  
"This just came in from Arkansas, Lieutenant," she said, handing  
him the fax. Welsh reached for the paper without any comment. Elaine  
siezed the opportunity and beat a retreat of her own.  
          
Her timing was excellent. "What the _hell_ is this?" Elaine  
could here the lieutenant through the open office door. "Fifteen  
hundred dollars to repair a 1968 police cruiser?! A thousand dollars  
for causing psychological pain and suffering to a... a pedigreed American  
Landrace sow? For a... a thousand bucks for a _pig's_ pain and  
suffering?!"  
  
Elaine checked; Fraser and Vecchio had disappeared around the corner,  
Diefenbaker only seconds behind.  
          
Silence, broken only by repeated _thunks_ from Welsh's office.  
          
_I don't even want to know,_ Elaine thought to herself.  
  
Huey, walking outside Welsh's office at that moment, paused... but not  
too long. The detective walked over to Elaine and asked, "Weren't  
Vecchio and Fraser just in there with the Lieutenant?"  
  
"Yeah...?"  
  
"Guess that's why Welsh's beating his head against his desk."  
  



End file.
